


The Lights That Stop Me

by thememoriesfire



Series: Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day New York is getting closer, and every day everyone else is moving further away. Sequel to 'Five Stages', focused on Santana, Quinn and Rachel. Reference to all canon up to 2x16 "Original Song".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to B for the beta. This story follows directly from 'Five Stages' but follows the progression of the Quinnterlude ('The Future Won't Listen To Me') that I posted separately. No need to read a Quinn story to follow this, however, as the same events will be covered from different angles. More or less.

1.

So.

The weather's taking a turn for the really-goddamn-cold early this year, and Santana thinks about quitting the Cheerios at least five times a day because really, there is no way to keep warm in just a tiny-ass skirt and skimpy spanks. Quinn's forbidden them from wearing tights even to practice, which is like-she's not even  _captain_ , but whatever. Santana concedes that they might as well get used to it, because it's not like the games are going to be taking place indoors, either.

By the middle of October, they've set up some electric storage heaters in the locker room and pile around them like puppies when they get inside. Post-practice turns into sort of an impromptu massage hour until they're all off either home or to glee practice; the cold is hell on their muscles, and it's  _necessary_ , but when Quinn first brings up the idea of just giving  _each other_ massages now that the budget doesn't cover massage therapy anymore, some part of Santana expects that shit to get really awkward really quickly.

Of course, she completely underestimates Quinn, who (while rubbing her shoulders) gives everyone else some really acerbic speech about how being gay isn't the same thing as being a predator.

"Yeah, she's not  _Puck_ ," Brittany chimes in from where she's stretching her hamstrings out, at which point the entire locker room just starts bitching about what a dick Puckerman is.

After that, the first of her last two semesters is just a collection of routines; Cheerios and massages first, then back to glee to work on a few numbers for sectionals, but they pulled that bracket with the deaf school again and so nobody (not even Rachel) is freaking out about their chances. Instead, they mostly are just testing the waters with their new members-a bunch of freshmen recruited by Mr. Schue in preparation of most of the club graduating at the end of the year.

The freshmen are just  _such_ fucking babies. The old New Directions all stare at them with horror until Rachel pulls some unexpected team spirit from  _nowhere_ and welcomes them all to the choir.

"You're not going to get solos this year; first of all, seniority is important for both the chances of the club at competitions and the overall morale of those of us who started this club up from the ground. Secondly, your vocal chords are not yet done developing so you will thank me years from now for not allowing you to over-exert yourselves. That said, we are  _very_ happy to have you as backup singers," she says, somehow making that sound like it's praise. Either way, the guppies buy into it. Santana swears two of the new girls actually worship the ground Rachel walks on.

They've come a long way, somehow. All of them.

...

Part of 'coming a long way' involves Kurt being a pain in the ass about homo-inclusion.

He corners Santana by her locker, giving her a brief once-over, and says, "You are possibly the only well-dressed lesbian I've ever met. What's your secret? You owe it to the community at large, as well as my eyes, to share."

"No secret; just a question of taste," she responds, shoving at the contents of her locker again. Her Bio textbook keeps falling out of her locker, which is still crammed full of things like spare outfits and study notes for the SAT. She just can't bring herself to clean it out; that day is coming soon enough. "What's up, Lady Di?"

"Just wanted to see when a good day for GSA meetings would be for you," Kurt says, breezily.

She doesn't really  _know_  why she spasms at the words; it's not like she's not super-out (like really, if there was such a thing as medalling in being out, she'd be scooping up at least a bronze by now) but she's also not really  _political_ about the whole thing. Nor is she active. Since Brittany-

She shoves at her books again and they relent, disappearing further to the back. The locker's slammed shut a moment later, and then she gives Kurt a slightly displeased look. "I thought we were past needing that. Queerios, and all that shit."

"The Cheerios will disappear with you," Kurt says, crossing his arms. "I'm sure it's occurred to you that our chances of finding another lesbian to captain are nil in this town. There isn't much of a legacy to create there."

"What about winning Nationals isn't a legacy, exactly?" she asks sharply,  _also_ crossing her arms.

Kurt sighs. "Santana-I'm thinking about the rest of the school. Karofsky won't be the last bully to parade around these halls, and I won't be the last boy with impeccable fashion taste to be tossed into a dumpster every day either, unless we  _do_ something."

"Yeah, well, suit yourself, Hummel. I think I've done enough for one fucking year," she says, when he stares at her for a few seconds too long.

...

Two days later, one of the new meat in New Directions comes and stands behind her when she's busy packing up their sheet music for the week and clears her throat gently. It's some girl - Ashley, Ashlyn, she has no idea - who looks like she's going to  _faint_ as soon as Santana turns around and actually looks at her.

"Yes?" she drawls out slowly, when the girl just won't stop staring at her with Pillsbury eyes.

"I just-I wanted to say that I think you're really awesome," the girl says, haltingly. "And that-I mean, you're the only … you know..."

It's almost impossible not to crack a smile, but somehow she manages; she has a reputation to keep up, for God's sake. "No, I don't know. So how about you come back and tell me when you've learned to develop your ABCs, or whatever."

The girl blushes, but doesn't run off like a scared little bitch, to her credit. "You're the only like...  _gay girl,"_ she says, almost in a whisper, "that I know. And you're-I mean, everyone  _loves_ the Cheerios, so that's really kind of amazing. Especially here."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever." She doesn't point out that a lot of people actually  _hate_ the Cheerios now, or that at the end of this discussion lies only the Road Most Slushied; fuck, she's not made of stone.

"Was it hard? To tell people?" the girl asks, softly.

"No," Santana lies, because Ashley or Ashlyn or whatever will find out for herself soon enough.

...

She finds Kurt twenty minutes later and says, "I'll do it, but it better not turn into some pathetic one on one counselling session with like, those two queerer-thans we have in glee now."

Kurt smiles. "There will be plenty of people present, don't worry."

...

He's not lying. Next Thursday, the choir room is full of most of glee club. Quinn and Brittany are playing with a rubber band near the back; Mercedes is texting someone (probably Kurt, even though he's five feet in front of her); Mike and Tina are talking to some boy that Santana can only think of as baby Kurt; and Ashley-or-Ashlyn is sitting next to Rachel, who is probably giving her an impromptu lecture on nurturing the glottal voice (or what the ACLU can do for her-it's hard to guess.) Finn's at the back, looking equal parts confused about what is going on and bored.

Kurt pulls up two stools near the front and gestures for Santana to sit down on one of them. She can't really roll her eyes enough, but then sort of lamely sinks down onto it anyway.

"We need a name," Kurt says, when everyone looks to the front expectantly. "Santana here has some … objections to calling it a  _Gay Straight Alliance_ , for reasons she will now explain."

"It's a dumb fucking name for a group that's not just for gays, or for straight people," she says, when all eyes are on her. Everyone murmurs for a moment, and then she adds, "I mean, everyone thinks  _I'm_ gay but that's just what other people call me. I don't really know if it's what I would call myself."

"Even though I myself proposed forming a GayLesbAl with Kurt two years ago, I would actually like to go on the record to say that I have changed my mind. Labels are very limiting," Rachel chimes in, after clearing her throat. "Studies have shown, actually, that developmentally, most of us will not be sure of our ultimate sexual orientations until we are well within our twenties. And I for one have no intention on closing a door that is intended to be open."

Kurt exhales audibly. "Thank you, Rachel. Your desire to be a part of all minorities all at once is, as always, inspiring."

The rubber band that Quinn and Brittany are playing with snaps audibly when Quinn sits up and says, "I'm obviously here to represent the straight part of the alliance, regardless of what we call it, but maybe Santana has a point. Calling it a GSA is about as sensible as clinging to a celibacy club in which all the members except me are having sex."

Miniature Kurt raises his hand tentatively. "How about we call it the Gender and Sexuality Alliance?"

It's not the worst idea, and a quick show of hands approves it.

"Excellent," Kurt says, taking out an incredibly small notebook and jotting down a few notes in it. "Now, for the sake of demonstrating that this is going to be an open space, I think we should all say a few words about why we're here."

"You made me come," Santana says, when he raises his eyebrows at her and motions for her to proceed. "No, seriously. That's why I'm here."

Kurt rolls his eyes excellently and then points at Tina. "Go ahead."

"Two of my closest friends are … gay," she says, after hesitantly glancing at Santana. "It would be great if people at this school would stop caring about that so much, and if they could just have normal lives."

Kurt nods and writes something else down; Santana looks at Mike, who shrugs and says, "I still remember everyone on the team calling me a fag when I first joined glee, and even though I'm not, it still sucked pretty hard. So, I'm here for support, I guess."

Miniature Kurt takes a deep breath when Santana levels a look at him, and then says, linking his fingers together over his crossed knees, "This may surprise all of you, but despite my outward heterosexual demeanor, I'm  _really_ gay."

The entire room bursts out laughing, and the meeting immediately takes on a different note, even though what people are saying is no less important. Quinn subconsciously fingers the cross around her neck when she talks about acceptance and who her real friends are, but her eyes drift between Kurt and Santana and she sounds like she means every word.

Finn awkwardly says, "Um, you're like, my brother now. So I'm here for you and stuff." It's almost sweet, and Santana knows Kurt looks faintly pleased. Mercedes just says, "I'm down with the gays. It's all good as far as I'm concerned" and goes back to her BlackBerry without even glancing up.

Santana takes a deep breath and then looks at who's next in line, willing herself not to look too interested in whatever Brittany is going to say.

"I love boys, but I also really like sweet lady kisses," Brittany says, at her nod, before looking at Santana in confusion. "So I guess that makes me gendered, right?" Quinn leans in to whisper something in her ear, and then Brittany laughs. "Oh, okay."

Santana's stomach flutters at that for just a moment, but then she looks at little Ashley/Ashlyn, who stares straight back at her and says, "I like girls. Exclusively."

"Whatever," Santana says in response, but in a fairly mild tone of voice; the girl sort of half-grins at her and then Santana looks at Rachel. "In five sentences or less, Berry; if Kurt's hand falls off from trying to write down your blabbering, Blaine might cry."

Rachel looks incredibly affronted, but then straightens and says, "I love the gay community, and the gay community loves me, what with my astounding knowledge of Broadway musicals. It has already become clear to me that when my future career takes off, I'm destined to date hundreds of gay men before finally finding someone who shares my interests  _and_ wants to have sex with me. I may not have any current desire to sleep with women myself, but that does not negate that I feel like I am among family here. … there, three sentences."

Santana tries not to laugh at the deadly serious look on her face, but then Rachel catches her eye and they end up chuckling at each other.

Kurt scribbles furiously but then sits up and says, "Thank you, everyone. Now-does anyone have anything they want to talk about in particular today?"

...

The meeting disbands a quick fifteen minutes afterwards, when nobody seems to have any pressing issues, and Kurt looks incredibly pleased about it.

"There, sugarplum; that wasn't quite the root canal you were expecting, was it," he says to Santana, when everyone is filing out.

She still doesn't really get the point, but he's right-it wasn't as bad as she was expecting, and maybe something good will come out of it for those two baby geeks.

...

She and Brittany go out ice-skating together shortly before Thanksgiving.

It's sort of a tradition, or maybe a Cheerio thing, because Quinn is also a beast on skates-but really, this is something that's always been about the two of them. The fact that they didn't do it last year was equivalent to being shot in the chest, really, and so when Britt shows up with skates draped around her neck and says, "Come on, please?", Santana can't really see any reasons to say no.

Brittany's amazing on ice. Or well, on her legs, period. Santana knows she looks like a fucking fool next to her, but it's fine, because somehow they end up having fun together. She goes and gets them peppermint cocoa when Brittany's trying to do a triple Axel for the fourth time, and they drink it while huddling next to each other-just like old times, really, except without  _any_ of that worried, nervous bullshit from before:  _what if someone notices there's something going on between us?_

"I loved you a lot, you know," Brittany says, unexpectedly. Santana's heart twinges at the past tense, but then Brittany sighs and says, "I mean, I still do, but sort of like I love Quinn. Although Quinn doesn't know what I mean most of the time, and you do, so I guess it's not like Quinn."

"I know what you mean," Santana says, softly. Their hands gravitate together almost naturally, and even though they can't link pinkies with Brittany's mittens on, their palms press together. It's a new thing, and maybe that's not a bad thing either.

"Yeah, see?" Brittany agrees. "Quinn totally wouldn't. She's not as smart as you are, I guess."

Santana smiles unwillingly and uncaps her cocoa, blowing on it gently.

"It would mean a lot to me if you could, you know, talk to Artie sometime," Brittany says softly, just moments later. "It's not his fault that I made you talk about feelings and things got weird after that."

The cocoa burns her bottom lip when she drinks it too quickly, but Brittany's mitten tightens on her hand for a moment, and the look on her face is serious.

"I mean it, San. It really sucks that my best friend and my boyfriend can't be in a room together. Because it's like, I'm always going to need two rooms, and I can't ever be exactly where I want to be, and not just because it's really hard to get a wheelchair up stairs by yourself."

She wonders when, or how, exactly, she missed Brittany growing up this much. It's a lot to take in, but the look in Britt's eyes is pretty much the same it's always been-a little bit of admiration, a lot of uncertainty.

"I'll try, okay?"

"And will you come visit, in Boston?"

Santana's chest turns on itself at the idea of being in Artie and Brittany's  _apartment,_ which will be full of shit they have done together and like, ramps, model buildings and dancing trophies, but she swallows hard and says, "Only if you come and see me and Q in New York."

"Totally. You know how I feel about apples," Brittany says, serious as she's ever been.

Santana can't help but laugh.

...

The feeling that she's finally getting somewhere with Britt again has her in a good mood until Thanksgiving-well, at least until her mother pulls her aside two days before the big day and somewhat haltingly explains that she's going to be alone for it.  _Again_. (She's stopped keeping track, but it's definitely not the first or the fifth time.)

"However, I've spoken to your friend Rachel's dads and they are very happy to have you," her mother finishes, tentatively. "I know it's not the same, but-"

It's actually more than she's ever bothered doing before, so Santana heads her off with a grudging, "They're Jewish-do they even  _do_ Thanksgiving?"

...

That turns out to be probably the dumbest question she's ever asked; if there was something like Thanksgiving decorations, the Berry house would be covered in them.

Rachel is wearing some sort of feathered headdress when she opens the door and hands her a black and white little head cap thing of some kind, and says, "I hope you don't mind; you strike me more as the pilgrim type."

Santana  _almost_ turns around on her heels, but finally just rolls her eyes and says, "I  _know_ you're just fucking with me."

Rachel's acting is getting better or something, because she's only about three percent sure that this isn't in fact going to be some sort of bizarre theater reenactment night until she sees that Black Berry is just wearing his  _I love the Chef_ apron. He beams at her and says, "Oh, good, you're here - I've attempted some non-vegan gravy to go with the tofurkey, but none of us can taste it, so-"

"I liked you better when you were cloyingly nice all the time," Santana informs Rachel, flicking her in the forehead. "And you look even more ridiculous than you normally do, take that shit off."

Rachel just laughs and, of course, annoyingly keeps on wearing the headdress for at least another thirty minutes.

...

She's not sure why she didn't expect Sam to join them; he came from some sort of boarding school or something (he  _has_ told her where his parents are, she just totally wasn't listening) but it's still a surprise and, honestly, it feels like it might cramp the entire night.

A normal night at Rachel's involves some lame ass boardgames that Santana does  _not_ enjoy and then a movie that's usually a little bit better. But when Sam's around, Rachel is a little different-just not as relaxed as she is when it's just her and her dads. Plus, she's like Quinn levels of insanely attentive. (The only good thing about Sam is that he rolls his eyes when she offers to refill his water for the fifth time and goes and does it himself.)

"So, Rachel tells us you two used to date," Berry White says.

It's like spending time at Rachel's is turning her entire fucking family evil or something, because Sam almost chokes on the sweet potato he's trying to process (really, he should be able to chew faster with that vacuum mouth of his) and it's only years of trying not to flinch in the face of Sue Sylvester that stop Santana from giving any sort of reaction.

"I wrote an awesome heterosexual song about his lips. He didn't like it very much," she says, batting at her lips with a napkin.

Sam finally swallows and glares at her. "The  _awesome_ song in question was called Trouty Mouth."

Black Berry smothers laughter successfully once, but then can't help himself the second time.

"Whatever, Sam. That shit was amazing, and you know it." Santana says, before glancing at Rachel. "At least it had a point, unlike  _My Headband_."

"I'm sorry - what?" Berry White asks, looking at his daughter. "What's  _My Headband_?"

Sam and Santana finally seem to agree on something when they both look at Rachel and say, "They don't  _know_?"

Rachel tries to stare everyone at the table down, but-nice try, obviously. "I kept my … earlier song writing efforts a secret."

"Oh, God, you guys really need to hear this," Santana says, laughing. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I know all the words because Britt listened to it on repeat for like  _five weeks_ when you first uh, 'composed' it."

"Sam-help me," Rachel grits out, but he just laughs and says, "For a change, I think agree with Satan-this is too good to not be shared."

By the end of the second verse Rachel's dads are almost crying with laughter; Rachel's starting to look pretty pissed, though, so Santana pretends she doesn't know the  _rest_ of the words and just plates some more tofurkey and mash instead.

"I didn't know you had such strong feelings about headbands, sweetheart," Black Berry says, wiping at his face.

"I thought Thanksgiving was about being  _grateful_ ," Rachel says, pointedly.

"I think we're all very grateful you wrote that song," Sam replies, still not able to stop from grinning.

Rachel's glare is joined by a pout, and of course that shit works magic on her dads. They're unbelievably wrapped around her fingers, it's crazy that she doesn't take more advantage of it.

"All right, sweetheart, enough," Berry White says, and then looks around the table. "And you're right. Time to be grateful. Let's do it."

Rachel says, "As everyone else is still  _dying_ from laughter, I will go first." It sounds so prim that it just sets Santana off into another round of near-giggles. "This year, I am thankful to have friends. Real ones."

The laughter stops almost abruptly; Berry White just says, "Oh, honey" and reaches for her hand across the table. Santana doesn't honestly know  _where_ to look, and studiously continues cutting up some of her turkey.

"I'm thankful that Santana bullied me into taking you to prom," Sam says, easily. It's somehow exactly the right thing to say, because it gives her a chance to say, "Just because you're a pushover when it comes to good ideas doesn't mean I  _bullied_ you, Frodo", and everyone else to stop thinking about what Rachel said, which was just-too much.

"I'm thankful that that bullying problem at your school seems to finally be under control," Black Berry says, before adding, "And that Matt Damon is finally back to making action movies."

Berry White rolls his eyes and says, "I'm thankful that my lovely husband is finally learning how to do laundry, after  _twenty or so years_..."

Santana knows she's smiling kind of dumbly, but they're just fucking unbelievable. Her own parents are getting better-her dad actually patted her on the shoulder the other day, after they got the invitation to Cheer regionals-but they'll never be like this. It's probably for the best; she barely knows what the fuck to say when they're all looking at her.

"I'm thankful for being both super hot and super smart. It's pretty awesome," she finally says, just because she doesn't have anything sensible to say that she'd be comfortable saying in front of Sam (who is  _still_ a little afraid of her, and she'd like to keep it that way) or even Rachel's parents.

"I suppose we should also both be thankful for our plentiful modesty," Rachel says, elbowing her in the side gently.

"I think it's everyone  _else_ that should be thankful for that," Berry White says, rolling his eyes.

...

All in all, Thanksgiving at Rachel's is pretty much exactly the weird fucking night she was expecting, but when they're done eating, she can tell that there's a fifth wheel vibe going on and excuses herself almost immediately.

Sam's doing the dishes for a change-which makes fucking sense, better to boss Rachel's boyfriend around than her friends-and so Rachel walks her to her car on the way back. Like, all the way to her car, even though it's about an inch away from the door.

"I meant what I said, you know," she says, leaning against the hood when Santana's fumbling around her purse for her keys. "I never thought I would have actual friends; not after how things started sophomore year, and I guess Quinn and I will never actually get along, but even we're civil now."

Santana unlocks her car quickly and then just sort of sighs. "Look, I don't want this turning into some big thing, but-for what it's worth. I'm fucking  _sorry_ we were all such assholes to you."

"You weren't anywhere near the worst, Santana. Latent anti-Semitism aside," Rachel says, almost casually, but when their eyes meet briefly, Santana feels yet another twinge of guilt. "Besides, I believe I accused you of having the career prospects of a stripper at some point, so..."

"Rach, seriously," she just says, because fuck if she's going to actually start talking about her feelings on Thanksgiving.

"What are you  _actually_ thankful for?" Rachel asks, giving her a look when Santana just shrugs. "Come on. It's in the spirit of the holiday..."

Santana takes a deep breath and then says, "The same fucking thing, basically. That... and my parents. You know, giving a shit, for a change."

Rachel's easy smile somehow makes that feel like less of a concession than it actually is. "Okay."

"Yeah, so," Santana says, still incredibly uncomfortable. "You need to get back inside. Wouldn't want the Blowfish to think I'm like, trying to-"

Rachel laughs. "I don't think he's creative enough to come up with any such theories; he's not  _Puck._ Besides, you and Quinn..."

Santana gives her a warning look. "Don't even. You fucking know better."

Rachel just smiles and shrugs. "You're both really attractive. It wouldn't be the strangest thing to ever happen."

"No, that's Puckerman and Lauren Zizes," Santana agrees, opening her door. "Anyway. Thanks for having me. Have fun with Guppy Face. Try to not be swallowed by him."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Be nice."

Santana doesn't bother pointing out that  _all_ she's being is nice these days; it's pretty clear Rachel can see right through her shit, anyway.

...

The damper on Thanksgiving is immediate when she spots a small, curled up blonde figure on her doorstep, and a giant black and red gym bag that looks stuffed to the hilt next to her.

She feels like a giant asshole for immediately assuming Quinn is pregnant again, but like, she can't help the history; and when Quinn won't really explain why she left, but the word homophobe is dropped, Santana can't even really explain how her insides twist uncomfortably.

They're already settled on the sofa with a giant bowl of popcorn and some stupid teen comedy playing in the background when she finally puts her gut instinct into words. "Q-what really happened? Is this about … me, somehow?"

Quinn stiffens almost imperceptibly, but then just reaches for the popcorn again and says, "No. This has just been a long time coming. I don't belong there."

"I can go talk to her, you know, tell her that there's nothing going on with us, I mean, shit, it's not like I'd even be lying," Santana pushes.

Quinn shakes her head. "It wouldn't make any difference, and I'll be damned if you're going over there groveling to her about something that  _isn't_ your fault and  _isn't_ a problem."

Santana bites down on her immediate response, which is something like,  _if you're homeless again because I'm gay, problem pretty much covers that shit_ , but instead just reaches for Quinn's hand and sort of stupidly holds it. "Either way, I'm fucking sorry."

"Me too," Quinn says, shakily, before turning the volume up.

...

Having Quinn at her house is, well, kind of awesome, even though she shouldn't be there. (If Santana ever gets ten minutes alone with either of Quinn's parents, she's pretty sure she'll also end up with a criminal record.)

The original accommodation offer has just stayed in place. Her mother did complain for about five minutes about how Santana can't just start bringing in strays... but parents love Quinn (when she's not carrying their grandchild, anyway), and Quinn has grown up in an almost military-style household regime of doing chores and shit, which parents  _also_ love.

By the end of the second week, Santana's mom turns to her and says, "Why can't you be  _more_ like your friend?"

"Thanks a lot," Santana grits out at Quinn, who is dusting off their china collection with a look of serious concentration on her face. "Now my mom is going to want me to go all Stepford just because it's your fucking destiny."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I'm just trying to earn my keep. It's the least I can do. It's awkward enough that I'm here."

"Oh, whatever. You know you're welcome here for as long as you need, honestly. You don't need to run for maid of the year at the same time," Santana points out, before prying the feather duster from Quinn's hands. "This isn't  _your_  house, and my parents might be a little … you know, not there, but they're not  _your_ parents. Just chill the fuck out already."

Afterwards, Quinn limits herself to cleaning the guest room and doing the dishes, and Santana grudgingly starts wading through the shit in her own room to try and prevent any comparisons between them.

It's like having a sister, which she never really thought she wanted-there's a lot more capital around for only children-but she's not above admitting that it's pretty great now that it's happening.

She tries not to think about how it might only be for a few more months, because Quinn's biting her nails every time the mail comes through, and Santana's optimistic but not  _stupid_. It's great to have Quinn living with her, but the ongoing sleepover they're having is almost definitely putting a lot more pressure on financial aid requirements.

It's fucking awful that this is because of  _her_ , rather than anything Quinn's done. It's fucking horrifying, and she has no idea how to go about fixing it.

...

After Q moves in, Puck starts hovering. Not a lot, and Santana doesn't think Quinn has even  _noticed_ him doing it, but it's fucking hovering nonetheless.

It's weird, because Puckerman doesn't really hover for  _anyone_.

Santana doesn't like it, and not  _just_  because the last time Puck even thought about hovering, Quinn ended up all bunned up. They don't need that shit right now, and even though Quinn seems okay and doesn't really want to talk about her family, she's obviously  _not_ okay.

If feeling fat made her sensitive to Puck's bullshit, Santana doesn't really want to think about what feeling  _parentless_ will do to her.

Besides, for reasons totally fucking unknown, he's still skirt-chasing Lauren Zizes, who could and would break Quinn in half if she thought anything was going on there.

Q swears there's nothing going on, but Santana knows deflection better than most people; after all, she did spend three years of her life promising the entire fucking world that there was nothing going on with her and Brittany.

...

Of course, then Puck and Quinn go to see Beth together, and Santana feels like a fucking tool for wondering. Not that she'd ever admit that to either of them, but when she's over at Rachel's the next weekend, working on the choreography for one of their new numbers at sectionals together-a really badass cover of  _More Than A Feeling,_ with Tina and Puck on lead ( _with_ Rachel's blessing, in the spirit of Christmas or something)-it sort of comes up anyway.

"So, Puck wanted to get into your pants at some point, right?"

It's not the most delicate way to ask, and Rachel rolls her eyes. "Puck wants to get into  _everyone's_ pants, so yes, I guess mine would be included in that."

"But you guys are friends now; for real," Santana presses. She rewinds the mp3 a few steps and looks at their blocking notes as it plays; mostly just to not look at Rachel.

"Of course. Puck and I have always had a lot in common; we're both Jewish, and ...," Rachel starts to say, and then laughs at herself. "Well, that's it, really, but in this overwhelmingly Christian community, it means I've seen a lot of him, his entire life."

"Right, so, how can you tell if he's trying to get with you or if he's just trying to be like-friendly?"

Rachel, to her credit, clearly knows what's going on, but doesn't point out that this is a conversation Santana should be having with either Puck or Quinn. "He knows how to take no for an answer, Santana. He just doesn't hear it a lot."

The mp3 of their backing track is paused, and Santana sighs. "She's  _always_ had a really fucking stupid soft spot for him."

"We all have soft spots," Rachel says, after a moment. "You just have to accept that if the rest of us are getting better at ignoring them, maybe Quinn is, too."

When Sam calls ten minutes later, Santana doesn't even bother to pretend she's not listening in on their conversation; it's nice, and casual, and there's a lot of laughter and really, Santana is glad that her impromptu but masterful scheme from last year seems to be working out okay, but-every time Rachel talked to Finn, she sounded like she was being gutted from the inside out.

It would be nice to think of this as  _better_ , but somehow it just feels like  _less_.

It's really not her fucking place to say anything, though, and so she starts the track again, softly, and forces herself to think about how they're ever going to get Finn to do the splits.

...

The bus ride to Sectionals is so much different from the bus ride to Nationals the year prior that it's almost surreal. Quinn and Rachel manage to have an entire ten minute conversation about the best Hitchcock movies without a single scathing response back and forth, and now that Kurt's back,  _everyone's_ nails end up looking banging.

Some part of Santana wonders about Veronica McVowel, which is weird because not only was she a senior last year, but they're not even up against Vocal Adrenaline in Sectionals. Kurt catches whatever look she has on her face, though, and just grins and says, "My oh my, someone is thinking this may be an opportunity to hook up."

"Oh, shut up, Kurt," she says.

"Why? Because I'm  _right_? Lord knows we don't get a lot of opportunities to get out of that stupid cow town we live in. You may meet someone civilized, and open-minded. Try not to let it kill you," he says, before gesturing at Mercedes for the next bottle of nail polish.

"You're a single lady; might as well be looking," Mercedes adds, handing over a muted shade of dark purple.

"I'm going to look like I have claws," Santana protests for just a moment, but they both silence her with a look. "Or not."

Quinn glances over from the other side of the aisle and says, "How about a betting pool? Twenty bucks says Santana is going to get some at this competition."

"I'll take that bet," Puck says, turning around and hanging over his seat. "Shit isn't even overnight-I know she's got game, but  _come on_."

He and Quinn exchange a look for a brief moment, and Santana bites out, "Forty bucks says there's something going on with Quinn and Puckerman."

"Not touching that one," Kurt says, before glancing over at Rachel. "What do you think, Rach?"

Rachel continues flipping through her most recent copy of Playbill before shrugging. "I don't spend a whole lot of time thinking about Santana hooking up with people, so I can't say I have any strong opinions either way."

" _Thank you_ ," Santana says, before glaring at Puck. "And I could totally pull it off if I wanted to, Puckerman; give me five minutes and a wall to lean against."

Everyone somehow ends up looking at Brittany for confirmation, who looks pensive. "Five minutes is a lot of time. One time-"

"Britt," Santana says, after glancing at Artie, who is doing his best not to look incredibly uncomfortable.

He gives her an almost grateful look when Brittany then just shrugs and says, "Santana's like magic. She can do anything she wants to."

Things just got incredibly fucking awkward really fast, and other than a sharp, second, " _Britt_ ", Santana doesn't really know how to back the conversation up to something more normal. It kind of serves all of them right, insinuating she's a big enough ho to just screw some girl at a  _show choir_ competition.

"I don't know; she's not the best songwriter, now is she," Rachel says, breaking up the weirdly tense silence.

Santana could kiss her. Well, not really, obviously, but still.

"Are you still pissed that I brought up  _My Headband_ in front of your dads?" Santana asks, looking at Sam, who also looks incredibly amused. "God, Rachel, I thought an aspiring Broadway ingénue like yourself would be able to put up with a little constructive criticism."

Rachel gives her a glance that indicates she's  _mostly_ kidding, before turning back to Playbill with a huff.

"I  _love_ that song," Brittany says, from the back row. "It's seriously the best."

Seconds later, they're all laughing; even Rachel can barely hide a smile.

...

They win, of course; it's not really a surprise.  _More Than a Feeling_  goes off like  _Don't Stop Believing_  did at regionals their first time, and the crowd is more or less up on its feet. Rachel and Finn follow up with a take on  _Live To Tell_ , and Brittany and Mike dance the hell out of  _Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me_ , which isn't actually about keeping it in your pants but suits Quinn's voice so perfectly that it's almost like it was written for her.

(Santana  _pretends_ not to notice that she's singing it more to Puck than to Kurt, who is her supposed partner for the song-but seriously, her nerves are firing in all directions at whatever the hell is going on with them.)

So what if she didn't have a solo; there's other competitions, and she's basically the best fucking flyer the Cheerios have ever had (she might be captain, but Q's much better at top of pyramid), so maybe it matters more that they collect another massive trophy and Mr. Schue looks like he might start crying at how well they all actually worked together.

"Seriously, guys. I never thought I'd see the day when Rachel was happy singing only one solo, or the day when Brittany actually remembered all the words," he tells them, when they're filing out of the auditorium. "You've come so incredibly far. I almost can't even put into words how proud I am of you, right now."

"Mr. Schue, on behalf of the club..." Rachel starts to say, but is then quickly mobbed by everyone standing around her, who starts groaning.

"Let's go bowling," Finn suggests, and even though it's basically the lamest thing he's ever proposed, they don't really want to split up after the competition.

...

The night ends with a seniors-only sort-of party at Puck's, which is a pretty low-key affair because his mother is insanely paranoid that he's going to knock someone else up, but there's a bottle of schnapps and really,  _nobody_ in the glee club is picky.

Even Rachel starts drinking, and Santana almost instinctively reins herself in because with Rachel  _and_ Quinn getting their liquor on, there is just no fucking way to tell what is going to happen.

Artie wheels his way around to where she's sitting in the window sill in Puck's basement, and says, "Thanks, for earlier today."

"It's nobody's business. Including yours," Santana says, a little pointedly.

He smiles after a moment and then says, "Brittany assures me that you wouldn't actually try to kick my ass because I'm, you know, in a wheelchair and everything."

"Yeah, I don't beat on cripples. No offense," she says, and wishes she  _was_ drinking more.

"So-maybe we could go do something with the three of us, sometime," he says, tentatively.

She looks across the room to where Brittany is dancing with Blaine and Mike and, yep, for sure, there goes her shirt-and she just sort of sighs and says, "Whatever. Maybe. And if I do, it's for her."

Artie nods and then turns around, before frowning. "Is there any way to get her to  _not_ do that? I mean, it was kind of awesome the first time, but I was wasted, and now that I'm not..."

Santana laughs without meaning to. "Not really, no. Good luck, Wheels."

He looks like he's going to say something else, and then sort of blinks twice and says, "Woah, Rachel."

Oh, my fucking  _God_. Santana knows what kind of drunk she herself is-occasionally giggly, occasionally emotional, and occasionally borderline hysterical, but Rachel seems to be veering towards the opposite end of the spectrum-whatever lies  _beyond_ stripper drunk.

Sam actually looks like  _he's_ being eaten alive, which Santana is pretty sure he's never experienced, what with his expandable jaw. But, someone  _really_ ought to go over there and tell Rachel she's basically flashing the entire room.

"Um, you two are friends now, right?" Artie says, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, when Rachel straddles Sam a little further and her skirt shifts up.

Not drinking  _sucks_ , Santana decides, before manning the fuck up and heading over there to pull them apart.

Sam actually looks a little relieved when she manhandles Rachel off him, but  _Jesus_ , Berry is a touchy-feely drunk, and is now sort of all over her. "Santana!" she exlaims, sounding very excited. "You should join us. We should  _talk_."

"Sure thing, Rach. Just as soon as we go and get you a glass of water," she says, propping Rachel up to the best of her abilities, but like-Rachel is more or less hanging from her neck, and so she just looks around before she spots Puck and then points at Rachel and makes another gesture towards the stairs.

...

Good boy; he knows exactly what she's asking for, and moments later they're in the kitchen. Puck hands Rachel a banana to eat a banana to soak up some of the liquor sloshing around her stomach.

And eat it she does.  _Enthusiastically_.

Puck blinks twice and then says, "That shit should be illegal if it's not a prequel to boning."

"It's obviously  _not_ ," Santana says, shoving at him. "Go back to your fucking party. I'm keeping her up here until she sobers up."

"You know, I don't have a gag reflex," Rachel informs them, batting her eyes twice.

Santana doesn't know whether to laugh or just make sure Puck disappears before she can continue that line of thinking. "That's great, babe."

"Yeah, Ms. Pillsbury thought so too, but I don't really understand why..." Rachel trails off, before looking at the banana in her hands.

"Fuck. I would seriously hit that if it wasn't for Evans," Puck murmurs, pausing again at the top of the stairs.

"Okay, no. She's  _hammered_. Even you're not that big a dickhead," Santana says, glancing over her shoulder at Rachel, who now seems to be using what's left of the banana as a microphone.

"Nah, I'm just messing-but don't even tell me you wouldn't, either. Look at her fucking legs in that skirt," Puck says, nodding at the legs in question. "And she's a fucking  _great_ kisser."

"What's going on with you and Quinn?" she asks him, bluntly, more to get him to fuck off than because she thinks there's actually something to talk about there. Nothing like mentioning the girl he knocked up to cool him down a few degrees.

Of course, her Spidey sense gets a lot more credence when he first looks shocked, and only  _then_ thinks to glare at her and head back downstairs.

Well, shit, Santana thinks; and then Rachel falls over somehow, laughing deliriously, and she knows she's got bigger things to deal with right this moment.

...

Rachel finally sobers up three incredibly weird conversations later; something about how many flights of stairs there are in the average building in New York, and something about how she always wished she could have a python for a pet when she was younger, and then finally something about how she suspects Brittany might actually secretly be a genius but like,  _really_ secretly.

"I might vomit," she then neatly informs Santana. "It's probably best if we take this to a bathroom."

"I'm not holding your fucking hair back," Santana notes, but when Rachel actually goes a little green in the face, of course she does  _exactly_ that.

Rachel spits and rinses a few times and then brushes her teeth with her finger, afterwards, and Santana sits on the edge of the bathtub and tries not to look too smug.

"Better?" she just asks.

"I think I probably would have lost my virginity in public if you hadn't intervened, so, yes. Better," Rachel says, after a moment, before sighing. "I don't think I meant to say that out loud. Am I still drunk?"

"Probably," Santana agrees. "Anyway, don't worry about it. It's not like Sam ever would've let you get that far. I had to basically threaten his junk to get him to-"

"I don't want to know," Rachel says, quickly.

"Okay then."

They're silent for a moment. "Is he any good at it?" Rachel then tentatively asks, still sort of weakly staring at herself in the mirror.

"Uh," Santana says, awkwardly. "Yeah, he's all right."

It's a little bit of a lie, because she hadn't been into it at all, but he'd tried to be all nice and gentle and shit and really, in terms of cashing in the V card, it could be worse. It could be someone like  _Puck_. (Or even someone like  _her,_ if she's being honest.)

"I'm not having sex until I'm 25," Rachel says, before rinsing her face with some more cold water. "It just doesn't seem like it's worth it. I mean, look at Quinn."

"Quinn had like, no concept of sex education and let Puck talk her into not using a condom. That shit is  _never_ going to happen to you. You probably have some sort of safe sex manual lying around your room for the big day, don't even," Santana says.

Rachel tries to glare at her, but ends up just sort of rolling her eyes and saying, "Nothing wrong with being prepared."

"Nothing wrong with having sex, either," Santana says, raising an eyebrow.

"So you've never regretted it?" Rachel asks, dapping at her face with a towel.

Santana shrugs. "Not really, no..." When Rachel continues to look at her, she sighs and says, "I shouldn't have fucked Finn, okay?"

"It's okay. I mean, it's  _really_ okay. I don't care anymore," Rachel says, sounding sincere enough. "Finn and I just always seemed very romantic, you know, the tall, pretty quarterback and the short unpopular girl, but it was a small town fantasy. I have bigger dreams than that."

They're silent for a long moment, until Rachel tries to take a step and wobbles. "I'm going to have to teach you how to hold your liquor before we move to New York," Santana says, trying not to laugh. "Nothing wrong with being horny when you're drunk, but  _come on_ , there's a fucking time and a place to put out, Berry."

Rachel blushes heavily and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mmhmm," Santana says, and then gets up and rummages around Puck's medicine cabinet for an Alka Seltzer. "Here, take that. You'll thank me tomorrow."

...

She's not wrong; Rachel texts first thing the next morning, way too early of course, and says something like  _I feel less like I'm dying than the last time I drank, which is probably because you were there to make me hydrate and eat something. So: thanks!_

She sends back a simple  _You owe me; next time I'm letting you get date raped._

Of course, then Rachel texts back with  _Of course you will, Santana. Seriously though, you were a gentleman last night, I really appreciate it._

A  _gentleman_? Santana rolls her eyes so hard she feels something pop in her neck.

...

Quinn's already having cereal when she finally makes her way downstairs; indoor sunglasses are a dead giveaway, and Santana chuckles.

"Sorry I wasn't monitoring your intake last night, you lightweight," she says, grabbing a bowl and having some.

Quinn sort of laughs and groans simultaneously. "Whatever, Berry  _clearly_ needed the help more than I did."

"No kidding," Santana agrees, and digs some yogurt up from the back of the refrigerator. When she's mixing everything together, she looks at Quinn and decides that now is as good a time as any to push her on something she isn't going to want to talk about.

"Hey. Is there something going on with you and Puck?" Santana asks, when they're across from each other at the breakfast bar.

If not for the fact that she's known Quinn for almost ten years now, she wouldn't have even picked up on the small twitch in her face; but it's there, and now she knows she's not just imagining things. "No. Other than seeing Beth together. Why?"

"He was eyeing Rachel up last night. He'd totally fuck her if she let him," Santana says, easily enough, but carefully watching Quinn's face anyway.

And there it is-the reaction that nobody who didn't have  _anything_ going on would have.

"She has a boyfriend," Quinn says, as casually as she can-so not very casually at all. "And he has Lauren."

"Yeah, and you have common sense and a chastity belt,  _right?_ "

Quinn only manages a half-hearted, "Duh", before continuing to spoon up the cereal.

Santana  _almost_  feels like an asshole for baiting and trapping her best friend in what has to be a serious moment of hungover weakness, but seriously-if Quinn isn't going to be looking out for herself, someone better take up the job for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to B for the gloss, and the rest of you for the kudos.

2.

So, sometime after sectionals, Finn starts dating a freshman.

Santana and Quinn get to school one day and see the student body parting like the red sea for this small Asian girl who Santana _thinks_ might be on the volleyball team, and Frankenteen. He's never lost a minute of his social clout, despite being a bigger tool than Karofsky and Puck _combined_ -and after a moment of just gaping at them, Quinn says, "Well, he has the intellect of a twelve year old so I'm sure they'll have a _lot_ to talk about" in the most neutral voice possible.

Santana tries not to laugh at him in glee, but _come on_. Finn fucking hates her anyway, and if not for the fact that Rachel glares at her and stage-whispers at her to grow up a little, she'd probably not stop making fun of him for the entire rest of the day.

It's only when she hits the showers after Cheerios and tries to worm out this ridiculous knot in her shoulder that Britt would've dealt with in about two minutes that she realizes that literally _everyone_ she knows is in a relationship. Except for Quinn, who just seems to be in denial about what a relationship _is_ , or at least, unaware that she's chasing after some dude (or being chased, that's still not entirely clear) who doesn't _do_ relationships. Even Mercedes has met some boy through Blaine and Kurt. _Mercedes_ , who is all about being independent and sisters-doing-it and whatever. (Hell, she didn't even take any of Puck's crap, so it must be like, a real thing.)

The locker room suddenly feels really large, and all the accomplishment of making it to regionals in both cheerleading _and_ glee, and getting into Barnard and actually getting some scholarship money as well as a grant from the HRC-well, it suddenly doesn't feel like it matters all that much.

Finn's got the girl. (Not _the_ girl, but whatever.) All she has is the ability to bitch about that.

...

Quinn's singledom takes another dent when she starts quizzing Santana on where Puck is going after they graduate. It's so transparent that Santana can't even really bring herself to give a shit if Quinn finds out. Maybe Rachel has a point; she might be able to stop forest fires if she tries, but Quinn's a big girl and it's not Santana's job to stop her from getting burned.

Either way, if Quinn's thinking about Puck, at least she doesn't have that fucking half-dead expression on her face-you know, the one that reads _I'm stuck in Lima forever_ or something like it.

Santana's pretty sure that there's something really wrong, but as long as neither of them bring up New York other than to look at sublets on Craigslist and things they want to do in the first month that they get there (some touristy shit, courtesy of Quinn; a gym hunt, courtesy of Santana), they don't _have_ to talk about it.

She's going to keep it that way for as long as she can, even though Quinn doesn't seem to be sleeping well at night anymore, and Santana knows that she's spent a good two hours tossing and turning before falling asleep as well.

...

Finn talks to Rachel, about how they're 'cool' now.

There's a flash of something on Rachel's face when he first approaches her, but then all of her rigorous fake professionalism kicks in and they end up shaking fucking hands on it. Nobody seems to notice the way Rachel is slightly sharp for the rest of practice, or heads out as quickly as she can when practice is done. Sam's talking to Mike Chang about the Mortal Kombat tournament the boys are setting up this weekend (and they better fucking invite her, she basically invented the concept of a fatality) and just isn't seeing what is going on right in front of him.

Rachel glances at her but clamps her mouth shut when Santana finally finds her, out in the courtyard, plucking at the hem of her skirt by herself.

"You're _not_ fucking jealous," Santana informs her, sitting down on the table next to her. "Come on. Finn and that Lucy Liu clone? That shit has expiration date written all over it."

"It's not jealousy," Rachel says, and then sighs and says, "I don't know. Some part of me just... thought he'd _never_ get over me. Not really. Quinn was safe, you know, because clearly with that amount of baggage I would always remain the preferential girlfriend in his head, but..."

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" Santana asks. "You were _sixteen_. He's probably going to date like, fifteen million people before getting married. There will come a time when he never even thinks of you."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Of course he'll think of me. It'll be impossible for him not to, once I'm famous. My picture will be everywhere, _haunting_ him."

Santana legitimately can't tell if she means it. "You're deranged. And not in a cute way."

Rachel smiles after a moment and says, "I'm kidding. Mostly. I don't really understand why..." She sighs and then straightens out her skirt. "Finn's my friend now, and I should be supportive of him-but I've watched them-"

"Yeah, that's not creepy."

Rachel shoots her a look. "It's not like-he's not doing it for popularity, or to not be alone. I think he actually _likes_ her."

Santana sighs and nudges her in the shoulder. "Yeah, and so what? You actually _like_ Sam, don't you?"

"I do, it's just..." Rachel doesn't finish her sentence, and then purses her lips for a moment. "I'm not going to apologize to you for overreacting to this. You should've seen yourself when Brittany and Artie didn't turn out to be a big joke she was playing on you."

 _That_ stings. "Whatever, Rachel. We weren't fucking friends then; I didn't even speak to you unless it was to insult whatever fucking blinding awfulness you were wearing, so-"

"Santana-anyone in this _town_ could've seen you were baffled _and_ devastated. You certainly punched enough freshmen in the groin to make it blatantly clear you weren't okay," Rachel says, pointedly. "My only point is, I'll get over it. You're over it now, aren't you?"

Santana doesn't even mean to really give Rachel's question any credence, but she thinks about it seriously anyway; and yeah, maybe she doesn't feel much of anything when she thinks about Artie anymore. He seems... _polite_ , which is probably the nice way of saying really fucking boring, but 'boring' might just be what stops Brittany from stepping out in front of traffic because she's thinking too hard about whether or not Martians are real.

"Yeah," she finally says, but adds, "Though it'd be much fucking easier to really be over anything if I was seeing someone else, so you don't have any fucking excuses for being a headcase over this."

"Oh, well. You know me-always looking for a dramatic exit," Rachel says, after a moment. It's tempered with a small smile that basically signals an end to the conversation.

"Well, how's this for drama: I'm pretty sure that Quinn has feelings and shit for Puck. Like, _seriously_ , this time," Santana says, raising her eyebrows and nodding at Rachel when she gets a surprised look in return..

Rachel's eyes narrow minutely. "That doesn't sound... prudent."

"No kidding. I just don't know what the fuck I'm going to do about it."

Rachel gives her a somewhat calculating look. "Would you like me to approach Puck as a fellow Jew and pump him for information?"

Santana laughs. "Nice choice of words."

Rachel flushes hard and then swats at her. "I _meant,_ use my well-honed interrogation skills to find out if there are reasons to be worried. I wish Quinn happiness, I do, but this is bound to complicate our last year here unnecessarily, and I would rather _die_ than not take Nationals."

"Yeah," Santana says, even though that's not _her_ reason for being worried; and if she's honest, she'd rather not think about why this seems like such a clusterfuck-in-waiting at all.

...

Watching Rachel work Puck is fucking _hilarious._

She gets all up in his space by his locker, stands on her toes and puts her hands on his chest, and he seriously looks like he doesn't know whether he wants to put his hands on her ass or tell her to fuck off. Santana watches it from the other end of the hallway for a moment and bites down on her lip to not start laughing.

Quinn, not so amused. "What the hell is going on there?" she asks, sharply.

"Jewbros," Santana says, with a shrug. "I don't get it, but then I'm Catholic."

"Yeah, right. There's nothing _bro_ about the way he's looking at her underdeveloped chest," Quinn snipes.

"God, who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?" Santana asks, still struggling not to laugh; Puck is slowly backing away from Rachel and Quinn might as well have hot air coming out of her ears. "Who cares what Rachel does with Puck?"

"She's acting like a _whore,_ " Quinn hisses. "It's bad for the glee club's reputation, and for what it's worth, Sam doesn't _deserve it_ ," she adds, before stalking off down the hallway and deliberately _not_ looking at Puck and Rachel.

Santana doesn't bother pointing out that the glee club is basically full of whores, and that Quinn doesn't really seem to give a shit that her best friend is one. Quinn will probably stop being crazy in her own time.

...

"Not to sing my own praises, but I fully believe that Noah would have had intercourse with me had I asked," Rachel says, later that afternoon; they're meeting Blaine and Kurt at the Lima Bean in a bit, but for now it's just them.

" _Noah_ would have _intercourse_ with a hole in a wall if he noticed it; that's not really the point," Santana says. "Did he say anything about Quinn?"

"Alas," Rachel says, before making a little 'mm' noise and saying, "This is _really_ good coffee. I'd almost say it's worth the 45 minute drive."

"Sorry I'm late," Kurt says, behind them, and kisses them both on the cheeks. "How are my second favorite ladies?"

"Quinn has what appears to be a one-sided affection for Puck," Rachel informs him, and then smiles. "Can I get you something?"

Kurt looks at Santana quickly, who just makes a face and shrugs.

"Yes- _all the details_. This may just redefine juicy," Kurt says, sitting down and taking off his coat in record time.

...

Santana never thought she'd be part of like, a _serious_ gossip circle, but Kurt is a gay dude, and Rachel _acts_ like a gay dude, so really, Blaine is the only person at their table other than her who's acting normal.

Kurt and Rachel hatch this amazing yet ridiculous plan to try and feel Quinn out at the next GSA meeting through a discussion about whether or not first love is a key indicator of current romantic feelings; it's way too fucking convoluted, and it comes at the hefty price of having to talk _about Brittany_ in _front of Brittany_ , but they push at her until she finally agrees.

"You're a little whipped," Blaine informs her when they're paying together. "It's sweet."

"I'm not _whipped_. I'm worried that I'm going to have to watch my best friend pop out another half-Jew or something; like, there has to be a fucking limit on how many babies you can give up for adoption in three years," Santana bites out.

"I didn't mean by _Quinn_ ," Blaine says, and shoots at look at Rachel and Kurt, who are gesticulating wildly about some how off-Broadway thing that they're both _dying_ to go see-more literally so in Rachel's case, it seems, as she starts clutching her heart a moment later.

"Please-getting them to stop being such fucking queens? I don't have the time; I'm only here for another 8 months," Santana scoffs.

Blaine grins and says, "Whatever you say, Santana."

Kurt makes his way over a moment later and says, "We'll discuss the rest of this after my upcoming murder-mystery dinner. Santana, you're welcome to bring Quinn, obviously," he says, easily, and then twists his lips. "Though... maybe don't mention this to Brittany. I'm still not entirely sure she can read, let alone follow logical story progression, which would somewhat hamper the success of the 1930s noir Hollywood plot that I've established. It will be _fantastic_."

Another light kiss to her cheek and they're out, arm in arm like two old grannies or something.

"Has Kurt told you about his dinner?" Rachel says, popping up behind her. "I literally _can't wait_."

Bitch looks like she wants to start clapping like a seal in excitement.

Santana pays, and wonders _how_ she ended up with these people as her closest friends.

...

By unanimous consensus, they kill Sam, who mostly just looks amused at the white grime paint that Kurt insists on applying to his face for the duration of dinner.

Santana will go to the grave denying that she sort of _enjoys_ the game, even if Kurt has made them all costumes and Rachel demands they all talk in appropriate accents or whatever; at the end of the night, she just mumbles something about how the food "wasn't totally shitty, so thanks."

Kurt gives her a haughty look and says, "You were an _excellent_ detective, so I will forgive you for the borderline insult."

She rolls her eyes and heads upstairs for their coats.

There was no real opportunity for alone time or a discussion, what with Quinn being around, and so _Operation No Quick_ (Rachel's idea, clearly) will have to wait for another night.

It's probably not a problem. Santana's pretty sure she'd notice if _one-sided_ turned into something more than that; Quinn's poker face is intense, but Puck's _I got some_ face is the easiest thing in the fucking world to read.

...

When she and Quinn get back, her mom is watching _Real Housewives_ on television with a glass of wine and says, "Mija, come here for a moment."

Quinn raises her eyebrows and disappears upstairs; Santana perches on the armrest and glances at the screen. "Ah, no way. _New Jersey_ is the worst season. Try _Atlanta_."

"This is what's on, it's fine," her mom says, and then glances up at her. "How would you feel about a big Christmas celebration, this year?"

"What, like a corporate party? Whatever," Santana says. It totally wouldn't be the first time, and it's hard to care about Christmas being ruined when it's _never_ really that great.

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of a more expansive dinner."

"Not really sure how we're going to manage that with just the four of us," Santana points out. She doesn't even think about including Quinn; like, where else is she going to go?

"You should invite your new Jewish friend. Her family doesn't celebrate Christmas; I've checked, and Hannukah is early this year," her mom says, already tuned back to the TV. "I obviously have no idea how to prepare dinner for this many people, but … I get the feeling that Quinn will be able to help out with that."

Santana doesn't really know what to say for a long moment. "Are you... is this because you don't want to be like, alone with us this Christmas or what?"

Her mother actually looks shocked. "No. I just thought it would be nice to have people over. Plus, your friend Rachel's fathers have been so good about... well."

 _Being your parents_ is what goes unsaid, but Santana doesn't really care; she sinks down further onto the couch and curls up next to her mom, who finishes with, "Just think about it. It might be nice to have a few more people over."

...

In the end, it's an easy decision once Quinn starts looking more and more uncomfortable at the idea of being around for a family holiday-so it's not even really about family, but more about making it seem like it's _not_ about family.

Rachel brings antlers for everyone, and a shitload of small wrapped gifts that end up being deposited under the fugly-ass plastic tree that they've had for ten years. It gets such a disapproving look that they spend most of the afternoon redecorating it, finally handing off a gold star to Quinn who is the only one of them tall enough to put it up.

"Q, I don't normally give a shit what you do, but seriously, any digs at Rachel tonight and I will punch you in the tits," Santana informs her, when they're changing into something more dinner-appropriate upstairs; still just jeans, but a nicer shirt, just because it seems like the thing to _do_ for a big Christmas dinner.

"I'll lay off her, as long as she can manage not being the single most annoying cretin on earth for the next four hours," Quinn says, curling her eyelashes. "So-just don't sit us next to each other, and we'll be fine."

Santana looks at her pointedly, and Quinn rolls her eyes and says, "I didn't even think you gave a shit about Christmas."

"I _don't_ ," Santana says, because that's not really the point at all.

...

When they get back downstairs, Rachel has put down place cards on the table-and of _course_ she's seated herself next to Quinn.

"It's the season for forgiveness," she tells Santana, at Santana's sharply questioning look. "I don't have anyone else to forgive anymore."

"Christ," Santana mutters, and voluntarily goes out to buy some more food; if Rachel and Quinn kill each other, it's probably for the best that it happens when she's not in the house.

...

It's touch and go, but somehow dinner goes fine.

Quinn says grace, very haltingly but it's also kind of lovely because she's clearly the only person at the table who actually _believes_ in saying grace, and then Black Berry and Santana's dad carve the ham together.

Rachel has prepared some sort of vegan pie as an alternative, and hell doesn't even freeze over when Quinn volunteers to try some.

"What? I read _Cosmo_. Vegan food is supposed to be amazing for your waist line; God," she snipes, when Santana raises her eyebrows.

It's so hard to take Quinn's acid tone seriously when she's wearing antlers that Santana just lets it go, and samples some of the vegan pie herself.

...

A quick exchange of presents (normally something for the morning, but there is no 'normal' in a house where the most common present has been a _check_ for the past five years) takes place after dinner.

Santana gamely puts on the knitted sweater that Rachel gives her, and feels only five percent like she might hurl if she sees herself in the mirror. The horror of that present is evened out somewhat by Quinn getting her an online gift card for Victoria's Secret, which is basically the best present ever, though it does get a hell of a lot of raised eyebrows in the room.

Quinn laughs at the look on Santana's face. "Consider this payback for that time you bought me a chastity belt for my birthday. Though, really, take advantage; you should look good on your first real, um, lesbian … whatever."

Rachel chuckles next to Santana. "You know, honestly, if I didn't _know_ better..."

"Cram it, Berry," Quinn says, with a sharp flush on her cheeks now that everyone is staring at her.

The Berrys shoot Rachel a questioning look, who just shrugs. "You never actually _asked_ if they were a couple."

"Right," Mr. Lopez says, squinting at his daughter. "What is this store?"

"Um," Quinn says, clearing her throat. "Well, anyway, it was meant to be a joke, but the gift card is real. I'm sure you'll buy something... great. That I won't have to see, ever."

It's kind of a dumb revenge plan when Santana's main reaction is _fuck yeah_ and _Quinn_ is the one who looks like she's going to explode with embarrassment, but whatever. She _will_ buy something great, and some chick in New York is _really_ going to appreciate that shit.

...

Sam shows up later, and honestly, he and Rachel are sickeningly sweet together. It's hard to tell whether Santana's getting vaguely nauseous because of how much she ate or because they're just so treacly.

She's not the only one put off by them; Quinn disappears upstairs abruptly, after Sam decides to _also_ go with 't'is the season' and forgives them all for being fucking horrible girlfriends, or something.

Ten minutes later, however, they hear the front door slam shut, and Santana sits up unwillingly.

"Oh," Rachel says, also surprised; she's flipping through the collection of classical soprano sheet music that Sam got her, but then looks at Santana with a small frown. "Is she-"

Santana just shrugs, because she has no idea.

"Here, Satan," Sam says, tossing her a weirdly shaped present. She unwraps it quickly and then laughs when she sees what he got her. "I figure you can use it during Cheerios practice to stab girls who don't have perfect lines"

Rachel looks torn between chastising him or laughing, and consequently earns herself the first prod with Santana's new (and awesome) children's toy pitchfork.

"We should get you some matching horns; the antlers are somewhat detracting from the evil," Rachel says, halfway seriously.

"They'd go really well with my uniform," Santana agrees, and then sighs and looks at Sam. "I didn't get you anything, obviously, but I figure the up-close time you got with the twins last year is payment enough."

Sam blushes hard, and Santana laughs when Rachel scoffs and shoves at her.

...

She heads to her bedroom shortly afterwards, because-whatever. It's fucking weird being left _alone_ with a couple on Christmas, so really, thanks a whole fucking lot, Quinn.

There's a missed call on her phone when she looks at it; she sort of assumes it's Q and almost immediately decides to ignore it, because she really _is_ kind of pissed and doesn't want to spend Christmas Eve yelling at someone.

However, the call turns out to be from Brittany, and that's less aggravating; they haven't said anything to each other since break started, but Christmas is another one of their _things_ and really, Christmas isn't actually complete without the look on Brittany's face when Santana finds the _perfect_ fucking thing to give to her.

"Hey. Do you want to come over in a bit or something?" she asks, when Britt answers. "You know, give each other presents, have a sleepover... you know, girl stuff. I saved you some spiked nog."

"Can Artie come?" Brittany asks, hesitantly. "I mean, not that I don't want to, but-"

"Um," Santana says, and then pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'm-my house, you know, the front steps. And with all the snow. I'm not really sure how-"

"Oh, right," Brittany says, and then sighs. "Maybe I can stop by tomorrow. I got you a present; it's really cool."

"Sure," Santana mumbles, and hangs up, fighting _hard_ against the feeling of bitter disappointment that washes over her. She's not _Rachel_. She can handle change.

She lets the phone drop from her hand and then settles in the chair in front of her window, looking out on the street. There's some faint tire marks that _definitely_ belong to a truck.

"That fucking cocksucker," she says, softly, because it's so much easier to blame _him_ for the fact that Christmas is ending on a downer than to just admit that it _sucks_ that she doesn't have anyone to spend the evening with.

She doesn't move away from the window until his truck is back in sight.

...

Quinn _refuses_ to answer her fucking questions.

Santana calls Kurt eventually and says, "Fuck it; let's torture her. She deserves it for being such a little bitch."

"Torture isn't exactly what I was going for," Kurt says, but she's already hanging up and she _really_ doesn't care.

...

Two _fucking days_ of not talking to her.

Then, a week and a half of distant civility, which is exactly as great as it sounds given that they see each other _all the fucking time_.

If this is some sort of prequel to living together in New York, Santana decides she needs to reevaluate her life choices pronto.

"Pass the milk," Quinn asks, without even looking at her.

Santana nearly throws it at her face before storming off.

...

Back in school; still no progress.

"Damn, Lopez, what's with the face - did Quinn stop putting out or something?" Puck calls out to her from below.

He's strolling by after football practice; it's freezing out and her teeth are chattering and Quinn _still_ isn't fucking talking to her, so the only logical thing to do is to leap off the bleachers and tackle him to the ground. She gets in two quick licks until he captures her wrists and shoves her off him.

"What the _fuck,_ " he spits, scrambling back to his feet. "What is your fucking damage?"

"You know what my fucking _damage_ is," she hisses at him, and charges him again just for the fuck of it. She just manages some punching to his chest this time, but he holds her off.

"No, I _don't,_ actually. Crazy _bitch_."

"What the _fuck_ were you doing with Quinn on Christmas Eve, huh?"

His eyes narrow at her. "It's none of your _business,_ Santana."

"The _fuck_ it's not if you're thinking about sticking your dick in my roommate some more," she snaps at him, before elbowing his arm off her.

He looks like he's seriously considering punching her. Wouldn't be the first time, but the last time they were both twelve and he hadn't bulked up at all yet. She could've taken him them. Now, it's just a question of whether or not pissing him off more is worth a lot of bruising or not.

She honestly still hasn't decided when a clearly furious Quinn shows up between them and barks at both of them that they are going to go somewhere and talk 'this' out.

Santana's not really sure why she's going along with Quinn's bullshit (really, _now_ she wants to talk? Bitch), except for the part where Puck is following Q already and it is going to be _really_ hard to beat the crap out of him from a different part of the school.

...

They're fucking kidding themselves if they don't think there's something going on.

So maybe Quinn doesn't hate Puck; maybe, some part of Quinn is even glad that there's a baby somewhere that looks like both of them. But like _hell_ this is about any of that. Quinn can't stop apologizing for shit that happened two years ago and Puck can't stop pretending he doesn't care about any of it.

The part that matters is that they both seemingly forget she's even there. (And now that they're having this 'conversation' or whatever, she doesn't really know what the _fuck_ she's doing in a room with them, either.)

She heads out for lunch, making up some fucking excuse about having plans with Rachel, just because the only shit she's seeing between them is shit she wishes she _wasn't_ seeing.

All she has to offer is a clean getaway, a fresh slate in New York where Quinn might meet some guy who doesn't know that those lines on her stomach are stretch marks, and where they can be whoever the fuck they want to be - mean girls, best friends, dedicated students, _happy_.

Puck can offer a family, and the way Quinn smiles at him sometimes...

She punches the first locker she sees and then clutches her fist with a grimace. She's _not_ Puck. She's nothing like Puck at all, when it comes down to it, and Quinn's made it plenty clear by now that she's not interested in having someone look out for her.

...

Kurt and Mercedes are not that easily deterred.

"Whatever. She's right, I'm not her girlfriend," she finally says, when they push her on what happened over lunch. She's picking stupidly at a salad because damn, she is really not hungry. She knows that Puck has a massive bruise on his cheek bone and her own knuckles feel like they're full of needles. It's not the kind of thing that isn't going to be public knowledge within five minutes.

"Well, that hasn't stopped her from treating you like her girlfriend for most of the year," Kurt says, pointedly. "And before you start denying, just hear me out. She's getting all the benefits of dating a popular jock without any of the pressure for sex. It's win-win for Camp Christian."

Santana doesn't even know how the fuck to respond to that; thankfully, Mercedes rolls her eyes and says, "Kurt, honey, I love you, but you don't understand close female friendships."

"I'm not saying Quinn's _using_ you," Kurt clarifies. "I'm just saying, maybe you _do_ have the right to be up in her business, given how she acts around you."

"Seriously, let's just fucking drop this. It didn't go over well and it made me sound like I was somehow fucking _jealous_ of her and Puck. That's not what this is about," Santana says, shoving her food away from her and getting up.

"Hey, Santana," Mercedes says, stopping her in her tracks. "I'll try to talk to her, okay?"

Santana just shrugs, because she doesn't even really fucking care whether or not Quinn and Puck are hooking up, or thinking about hooking up, or getting fucking married next month. It's a big fucking pile of _whatever_. The only thing she needs to hear is that New York is still New York.

(The financial aid decision should be back any day now, and they're barely even on speaking terms with each other.

This isn't at _all_ how she wanted this year to go.)

...

The thing that she remembers most clearly, afterwards, is that Rachel had been holding Quinn's hand.

It was like the onset of the apocalypse was announced in her bedroom at around 3.30 pm on a Sunday; it started just like any other weekend-jogging, breakfast, then Rachel came over to work on an AP Chemistry lab report together, which they were _almost_ done with when Quinn showed up and held Rachel's hand while blowing their entire future to fucking pieces.

Santana had known, in her gut, that it was coming. She just hadn't known how much she actually fucking _cared_ until it was really there, in her hands.

Sunday around 4 pm marks what were probably the 30 most silent minutes of Rachel Berry's life, too. Right when Quinn left, Rachel put in a really quick call to someone-she doesn't even know who-telling them to go and look for Quinn, because she "needs a friend right now". Since then, she's not said a word. Just wrapped an arm loosely around Santana's shoulders, who just _cannot_ fucking stop crying.

She can't even really put into words what she's more upset about; the idea of what her future was going to be being torn to shreds for the second time in two years, or the fact that Quinn-who _is_ her best friend, goddammit-is going to be stuck in fucking Ohio for the rest of her life because of _one_ fucking mistake.

The distance between Ohio and New York is just...

She sighs and moves away from Rachel's arm, at fucking last, and swings her legs over the edge of her bed to take a deep breath, rubbing at her eyes until she's sure she's not going to cry anymore.

"Do you want me to call Brittany?" Rachel asks.

"No," Santana says.

Honestly, she thinks she's done being fucking crazy upset, but then she thinks about Artie and Brittany and their perfect wonderful Boston future, and something so incredibly fucking bitter swells in her chest that without even thinking, she slams her arm out and swipes the entire contents of her nightstand onto the ground.

A snow globe Britt got her at a county fair when they were twelve clatters to the ground and breaks, and she stares at it until Rachel clears her throat and says, "I'm just going to get some paper towels."

She doesn't actually start processing the practical ramifications of Quinn's rejection letter until an hour later, when Rachel's brought up some iced tea and is just silently sitting next to her, maybe waiting to be excused or may just clever enough to not fucking say anything.

There's not really anything _to_ say.

"I'm going to be fucking homeless next year," Santana finally mumbles, not really loving how her voice breaks on every single one of those words.

"No, you won't," Rachel says, after a long moment, and links their hands together. It's not like a pinkie swear, and it's not like Brittany's mitten, either. It feels very solid and very real, and even though they probably need to think about this a little more when Santana doesn't feel like her insides are going to claw their way out of her body, it's _something_.

...

At least Quinn stops fucking lying about her feelings.

Some part of Santana thinks that this is as close as she's ever gotten to a _real_ break-up, and of course it was in the aftermath of something that definitely wasn't a relationship-but Quinn's saying goodbye without actually saying anything, and Santana _knows_ that she's not going to be carrying Quinn's books around anymore.

"He's still going to be an asshole a lot of the time, and he's not ever going to do exactly what you need him to," she says, just because Quinn should _know_ what she's getting herself into. Puck is something she can control, even if she can't control where she's going to go to college. "He's not a Finn or a Sam. He's not going to change for you, or bend over backwards to make you happy."

Quinn looks down at her and shrugs with a faint smile. "So? All the bending and changing didn't make me happy, did it."

"No, I guess not," Santana says, and squeezes her eyes shut just to not have to look at the expression on Quinn's face anymore.

She looks almost _relieved_. It's not fucking fair, because Santana can't feel anything other than that she's somehow being punished for Quinn's mistakes right alongside her.

...

Rachel decides to distract her from her … shit, she's not even really sure what to call it; in any event, Rachel decides to distract her by prepping them for a duet for Regionals.

It's the first time they've ever really sung anything together, and Rachel somewhat obviously fixates on Chicago's _Saturday in the Park_ , which just goes to show how so many years of singing with Finn completely warped her mind as to what kind of music _Santana_ sounds good on.

In the end, they compromise on _L.E.S. Artistes_ , and Quinn knocks on her door two days after she's started rehearsing her part of the harmonies and says, very brokenly, "So what-Finn and I should prepare a duet about how much we love Ohio?"

"Have you even fucking _heard_ the lyrics?" Santana responds, pausing the backing track without turning around.

Quinn sits down next to her with a sigh and just says, "I really wish..."

But there's no end to that sentence, and this is just going to take fucking time to get over.

...

Brittany throws a house party when her parents are gone about a month before Regionals. Santana and Quinn arrive together, and split up immediately at the door.

"Remember what I told you about date rape," Santana warns Rachel in passing-Sam's totally baffled look in response is enough to put a little spring in her step-and then heads out to the back porch, mostly to be alone for a while.

Of course, she's not the only one who loves that fucking porch and its view. Britt's already standing with Artie, just staring out into the distance; until she half-turns and spots Santana.

"No, don't go. We're just watching the sunset," Brittany says, when she's getting ready to leave them alone and go back inside. A hand is held out for her, and after a quick glance to Artie, Santana takes it.

"I'm going to miss skies like these," Artie says, softly. Brittany's arm is loosely resting on the back of his chair, but that other hand is pressed against hers, and somehow it ends up working something inside of her loose that's been tight ever since Quinn broke the news.

"Yeah, me too," she says, leaning into Brittany just a little.

...

Puck and Quinn are making out somewhere, she's sure of it, and so when Rachel proposes a game of Spin the Bottle, she's almost relieved. At least that will keep her from wondering if Quinn is as fucking devastated about not coming to New York as Santana is about going by herself for another twenty minutes or so.

Finn laughs and coughs at the same time when Kurt lands on him. "Dude, no. Not because you're a dude, but you're like my brother and stuff."

Kurt pulls a face and says, "Don't worry, Finn, this isn't the yarn of my fantasies, either."

"Not _anymore_ , anyway," Santana adds, dryly; Mercedes hits her on the back of the head but everyone else is laughing, including Kurt.

Finn's second spin lands on Rachel, which is even _worse_ , but they awkwardly peck each other on the lips while Tiny Asian and Sam look on with a little concern. It's possibly the least sexy kiss ever (and that includes the ones that Santana had with Finn that one time), though, so they really shouldn't stress out too much.

Rachel lands on Brittany, who laughs and says, "Awesome. You know you're like, the last person in our year I haven't made out with, right. I was really hoping for that perfect record before we graduate."

"Wait-you've made out with Quinn?" Finn asks, looking around the circle with a _lot_ of confusion on his face. "Uh. When?"

"Oh, ages ago. You know, at some Cheerios thing," Brittany says, easily. Santana bites down on her cheek to not start laughing, because Quinn had been so fucking drunk that she probably doesn't remember it at all.

Rachel rubs her hands together like this is some sort of performance; and well, the way they go at it, it _kind_ of is. Sam goes deadly pale in the background and then blushes hard, and Santana wonders _when_ Rachel had the time to get drunk because, damn.

"Hm," Brittany says, licking her lips quickly when they finally separate. "You're a good kisser. And your nose totally didn't get in the way like I thought it would."

Santana knows she's literally the only person in the room who would tell Brittany to apologize, but she bursts out laughing. The offended yet flattered look on Rachel's face doesn't help at _all_ , and she only stops laughing when Mercedes elbows her unexpectedly hard.

Britt spins and lands on Mike, and kisses him much more sweetly and with _much_ less purpose, which is all sorts of weird because they dated for a while and like, whatever. Santana glances at Artie, who really doesn't look like he cares overly much; not until Mike spins and lands on him, anyway.

They gamely peck each other; Artie spins and gets Mercedes, which is just fucking unnatural, who then gets Sam-which really, _poor her_. Of course, then Sam spins and lands on Rachel, and _Jesus_ this is the lamest game of all time.

Santana slips out of the circle and heads to Brittany's bedroom, where, sure enough, Puck and Quinn are sort of dumbly grinning at each other (with about half an inch of space between their faces).

"Hey," Santana says, without warning. "Not that your face sucking isn't entertaining... well, actually, it's not. And his party is beyond dead; I need to borrow Puckerman to like, reanimate it or something."

Puck looks at her over his shoulder and steps away from Quinn with a slightly curious look on his face. "Seriously. You're not gonna give me any shit about … this anymore?"

Santana rolls her eyes at him. "Whatever. It's your lack of sex life."

Quinn huffs next to them, but Puck just grins and says, "Awesome. I have a bottle of tequila in my car. Be right back."

Quinn stays leaning against the wall for another moment, but then gives Santana a look that's a little too vulnerable for completely-sober Quinn. "Hey. Are we okay?" she asks.

Santana sighs and sort of shrugs and then sighs again. "What else can we be? I mean, you _can't_ fucking come to New York, and me staying in Ohio-" She looks at Quinn for another moment and then cups her cheek, just for a second. "I love you, but it would be fucking crazy to do that for you when I've never even _considered_ moving to Boston to be near Britt."

Quinn squeezes her into a tight hug a moment later and says, "I know, you know I never expected you to."

There's not really much else to say.

...

So maybe they're sort of okay.

Quinn looks-sort of happy, for the first time in a really long time. She doesn't even look upset when Puck wolf-whistles at Rachel for taking her sweater off halfway through the evening, so maybe Quinn _does_ know what she's doing.

It would be nice if Santana could say the same, but she's moving to New York in about seven months time, and she can barely even figure out what she's going to wear to regionals, let alone what the fuck living in a different city is going to be like.

Somehow, though, across the room, Rachel catches her eyes and just mouths something like "It will be okay", even though it's completely out of context and possibly only in relation to the fact that Sam appears to be pulverizing Santana's high score on _Just Dance 2_.

Rachel's probably just drunk, and might have even mouthed something like "I'm going to take my top off now", but whatever. It's the thought that counts.

Santana figures her karma will eventually even out. If she didn't get to keep the girl _or_ her best friend, the universe probably owes her a big fucking favor any day now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains many references to competitive cheerleading stunts that high schoolers technically aren’t allowed to perform, but this is Glee and these bitches are the Cheerios. I apologize for nothing, except all the other parts of this story that are surreal, and um, slagging on Delta Psi Epsilon--I'm sure anyone who pledged there is lovely (and probably not an alcoholic). Thanks to B for all the support.

3.

So.

“Your number one fan is back,” Quinn tells her, with a glance and a nod up to the bleachers.

Santana glares at her, and then glares at the bleachers, where Ashley-or-Ashlyn is sitting, _pretending_ to be doing homework. It’s Rachel-Berry-loves-Finn-Hudson levels of fucking weird.

“She’s _fourteen_ ,” Santana hisses. “I’m not Finn, I don’t date jailbait. Or freshmen. Or _anyone_.”

Quinn just grins and says, “I think it’s kind of cute. When’s the last time someone managed to look past the fact that you’re the biggest bitch alive long enough to actually _like_ you?”

Santana feels her face fall before she can stop it.

Quinn sighs and says, “I didn’t mean...”

“It’s fine,” Santana says, with a glance towards Brittany. “Anyway, that twerp doesn’t _like_ me. She just thinks she has to out of some sort of warped gay loyalty or whatever. I’ve said like five words to her, two of which were _shut up_. She doesn’t _like_ me. And, for fucking real, even if she did, I’m not desperate enough to start hooking up with a _child._ ”

“Like I said. It’s cute,” Quinn says, with a grin, before clapping her hands together and pulling everyone together for their warm-up run around the track.

It’s the seventh or so day in a row that Ashley-or-Ashlyn has shown up, and Santana doesn’t even really know _why_ she hasn’t gone up there to tell her to stop.

It’s _definitely_ not because she’s trying to be _nice_ , or because Brittany would be a little disappointed in her railing on some tiny ass fourteen year old girl with an understandable crush.

*

So, it seems that nobody told Kurt that Quinn and Puck were no longer in need of an intervention; Santana curses herself for it, but really, he’s the biggest gossip whore in the school, so _how_ was she supposed to know he’d be behind the loop on this one?

It’s only when she sees the somewhat amused and smug look on his face when he announces they’re going to talk about lingering affection for first loves that she realizes he’s playing _her_ , not Quinn.

“I’m going to fucking kill you. I mean it, I’m going to dump a dumpster _on you_ ,” she promises him, softly, when he calls the meeting to order and asks for volunteers.

“I’ll start,” he says, louder than her, and then smiles at the room. “I’m sure it’s common knowledge by now that my first real crush was on Finn.”

“Aren’t you two brothers?” Miniature Kurt asks, sounding really disturbed.

“Not biologically,” Finn grits out slowly.

“I honestly can’t say that I know what possessed me at the time,” Kurt says, with a fond smile. “You have no taste in _anything_ , least of all fashion, and I think we’ve all seen over the past two years that you’re an atrocious boyfriend. So, no, I don’t have any lingering feelings.”

Finn glares at Kurt, hard. “Madison doesn’t think I’m a bad boyfriend.”

“Madison is _twelve_ and probably thinks that sharing a snack box with her makes for a good date,” Quinn says; Mercedes laughs and high-fives her a moment later.

“Whatever,” Finn says, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes.

“Who wants to go next?” Kurt asks.

Tina raises her hand tentatively and then says, “This is going to get weird real fast. We’ve dated far too many of the same people.”

“I think the point is that it _shouldn’t_ be weird,” Rachel says, and then glances at Quinn and Finn in short succession. “We’re all very young. Puck once said to me that five years from now, we won’t even remember most of the people in this room. Granted, he said it only because he thought it would get me to sleep with him, but--”

Santana looks at Quinn’s face for a long moment; the look on it is indescribable, but then Quinn just straightens and says, “I agree, shockingly. I suppose technically Finn was my first love, but I’m _very_ much over it.”

“Yes, me too,” Rachel says, a moment later.

“What is this, pick on Finn day?” Finn complains from the back row.

“I’m not over you,” Brittany says, looking pensive. “I don’t know how I could get over you. You’re _really_ tall.”

“Okay then,” Kurt says, after a pause. “Tina--what about you?”

“I’m happy with Mike, and Artie is happy with...”

Ugh, the hesitant look that is directed at Santana sets her fucking teeth on edge. “Yeah, we all know. Seriously, Kurt, I don’t want to agree with Berry on anything, but this is turning into an incestuous hug-it-out orgy.”

Ashley-or-Ashlyn raises her hand after a moment. “I haven’t dated any of you.”

“You’re also an _embryo_. Who the hell have you even had time to be in love with?” Santana responds, scowling at her.

“Santana, behave. Alice, the floor...” Kurt says, gesturing.

The girl takes a deep breath and then says, “I actually have a slightly different question. Because--I _think_ I like someone--”

Quinn raises her eyebrows and makes a little finger-heart in Santana’s direction. _Bitch_.

“--but it’s like, this isn’t always easy. Because sometimes when I care a lot about, you know, a girl, it’s because we’re really close friends. And then other times... well, I don’t know.”

She stares at Santana for a long moment afterwards, who just rolls her eyes. “If you want to _fuck_ your _friend_ , you are having not-so-friendly thoughts. It’s not rocket science.”

Kurt slaps her on the arm. “ _Santana_. For God’s sake, she’s not having sex with anyone. … are you?”

Alice shakes her head after a moment, and the room sighs in relief collectively. The baby glees are like their little siblings; nobody wants that imagery in their heads.

Brittany says, “I know what she means. Like, I love Quinn, and she’s a good kisser--”

“ _What_?” Quinn exclaims, before directing a death stare at Santana. Like it’s _her_ fault somehow that two shots of tequila turn Quinn into a kissing slut.

“But I don’t want to be with her. It was always different with you,” Brittany says, before looking straight at Santana. “Right?”

Santana feels a lot of responses die in her throat. It’s not because Quinn is looking at her, but because this isn’t anybody’s business; nobody needs to know about that first time that Brittany kissed her and she _knew_ she should’ve been totally weirded out but she wasn’t.

And then she’d spent some time thinking about kissing other girls on the squad, and when thinking about it wasn’t giving her any answers, she’d spent some time actually kissing all the other girls on the squad. It was always fine, but never spectacular.

Somehow, she always ended up coming back to Britt, and always managed to convince herself that it was only because they were besties, which...

“ _When_ have we kissed?” Quinn asks, in a really pinched voice.

“Oh, calm down, Quinn. This doesn’t rescind your invitation into straight girl heaven,” Kurt says, rolling his eyes at her.

Santana can’t stop looking at Brittany, who gives her one of those small, private smiles they used to share; and like, maybe it’s just nostalgia, but it feels like a lot more when she can feel the whole room staring at her. A whole rush of feelings that she didn’t think she had anymore washes over her, just at that smile, and _fuck._

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Alice,” she finally says, when it feels like her skin is going to set itself on fire. “Let me be really clear right now, okay? You’re not fooling anyone, because your dumb ass crush on me is blatantly obvious to anyone with more brain cells than Finnacle up there; and guess what. It’s _never_ going to fucking happen. I’m out of your league in more ways than I can even count, and that’s discounting the fact that I don’t date _children_. So stop fucking following me around.”

Alice stares at her with wide eyes for a moment, which then fill with tears, and next thing she’s basically tripping over herself in an attempt to run out of the choir room.

Rachel directs possibly the most disappointed look in the world at her before heading out after Alice, probably because _as co-captain,_ it’s her job, or whatever.

“Dude, that was way harsh,” Finn says, looking stunned.

She _knows_ , but whatever. She can’t really meet anyone’s eyes, least of all Brittany’s, and ends up just knocking her stool over before also heading out of the room.

(God help the first person to try to fucking follow her right now.)

*

Kurt texts her, and she doesn’t need to open the message to know it’s just bullshit about just in how many ways she let down a baby gay today. Family, blah blah blah.

It’s for the _best_. The quicker people learn that life isn’t going to ever cut them a break, the less it will hurt when their dreams for the future do nothing but fall apart around them.

*

She sees Quinn at dinner; Quinn looks like she wants to say something, but ends up just eating silently while flipping through some homework that will probably not get done.

“Just fucking _say_ it. Whatever you’re thinking. I can practically see your brain churning,” Santana says, dropping her fork down on her plate.

“What was that _really_ about?” Quinn asks, without looking up. “Don’t get me wrong, I disagree with the method more than the message, but you haven’t been needlessly cruel to anyone in glee in like--I don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” Santana mumbles. “It just--whatever. It’s not like any of it was a lie.”

“I’m going to hazard a guess here and say that your spectacular freak-out had more to do with Brittany than with Alice Freeman,” Quinn says softly, after a long moment.

Santana doesn’t say anything in response; just watches as Quinn slowly continues eating without asking anything else.

“That would be fucking retarded,” she says, when the silence becomes unbearable. “You heard everyone today; Britt and I were just high school. It’s something I won’t even remember five years from now, or whatever.”

Quinn gives her possibly the most no-bullshit look ever at that. “ _Everyone else_ dated people in the past two years for popularity or just to not be alone, Santana. Call me crazy, but I don’t really think you and Britt ever fell into either of those categories.”

There’s not a whole lot to say to that that won’t turn this into a conversation she doesn’t want to have, because talking about it just can’t go anywhere good..

“What’s going on with you and Puck? Popularity or not being alone?” she finally asks.

Quinn shrugs. “Neither. We’re working on getting along. From a distance, mostly.”

“And that’s cool with you? Not really being in a relationship or whatever?”

Quinn spears some broccoli and examines it carefully before eating it. “Not all of us are good at making relationships work. All I know is that I feel better than I have in a long time.”

“Aren’t you fucking _lonely?_ You’ve never been single; not for this long, anyway,” Santana asks, because this is _Quinn_ , and it’s not like any of this conversation will ever leave the room.

Quinn looks at her carefully and shakes her head. “I may not have been single at the time, but I’ve been alone for a lot longer than you have. You’ll just have to take my word for it that it gets easier.”

*

Alice stops showing up at practices, which is _good_ , but doesn’t really explain why Santana feels so shitty about it anyway.

Rachel corners her outside of the locker room and says, “ _Not_ that her feelings for you aren’t totally misguided, because she’s sweet and innocent and you’re mostly _awful_ , but she is a valued member of the club and you _will_ apologize to her.”

“Who’s going to make me, Berry?” Santana snarks, but she should really know better now than to throw down a gauntlet with Rachel.

Ten minutes later, she’s awkwardly standing by Alice’s locker, who walks up slowly and with a lot of trepidation.

“Yeah, so,” Santana says, willing herself to be patient. “You need to like get over what happened last week. _Fast_.”

Alice relaxes visibly after a second and then says, “It’s okay. Rachel told me you’re still in love with Brittany, and that that’s what made you so … mean. I get it. It’s ... not easy liking someone who doesn’t like you, is it?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t drop out of glee because I was kind of a bitch. Okay?”

The smile on Alice’s face is a little less smitten, but no less annoying.

*

Cheerleading regionals and show choir regionals end up being scheduled barely a week apart. Santana and Quinn are pretty sure they can handle that, but are also astute enough to realize that _some people_ probably shouldn’t be told.

Of course, trying to keep a lid on Brittany is--well.

“Hey, seriously. It’ll be okay,” Santana says, with a look to Quinn that says _back me up_.

“It will most definitely not,” Rachel protests, and then starts pacing in front of them. “I know I sometimes crave drama for its own sake, but this is _not_ okay--I rely on both of you to help everyone with the choreography, but Quinn’s scholarship depends on cheerleading and--”

“ _Berry_ ,” Quinn says, almost gently. “Take a pill. Santana’s right. We have it covered. Okay?”

Rachel takes a deep breath, stops pacing and then sighs. “I suppose I will have to be gracious and permit you to skip at least one of our four dress rehearsals, as co-captain.”

“Much appreciated,” Quinn mumbles; Santana just bites her lip and tries not to laugh.

“Are--what are your chances?” Rachel asks, finally.

That’s a loaded question. With their stripped budget, they don’t really _have_ the money to go and scope out the competition (who are mostly in Pennsylvania at this stage), and while Santana has spent hours and hours going through Coach Sylvester’s old notes on rival teams, that isn’t really the same as seeing it in person.

Also: she and Quinn are taskmasters, but they’re not _evil_ in the way she was--so everyone is a little less crisp and eating a little more than they were in the old days.

“They’re good. Not as good as previous years, but they’re good,” Quinn finally says, when Santana doesn’t respond quickly enough.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” she agrees.

Rachel hesitates for a moment and then says, “Well, let us know if we can do anything to help.”

Quinn looks like she’s choking on air when she says, “Sure thing” before grabbing her bag and heading out to the field. Santana watches her go with an amused little smile, and then looks at Rachel.

“It’s not nice to fuck with her head when she’s actually _trying_ to be nice to you.”

Rachel tilts her head. “I wasn’t, as you put it, fucking with her. In fact, I may or may not be organizing some transport to Canton so that we can come watch you.”

It’s like the advent of Armageddon, or something. “For real?”

“Yes. Everyone tells me cheerleading is a real sport, and not just a blatant demonstration of the patriarchy’s desire to reduce women to mindless sex objects,” Rachel says, without even a hint of humor. “I suppose after all these years of dismissing it as pointless, it’s only right that I accept that I _may_ be wrong and form my own opinion after a first-hand viewing.”

Santana stares at her. “Patriarchy _this_ , Berry.”

Rachel tuts at the raised middle finger, but then smiles. “Puck assures me that it will actually be very entertaining.”

“ _Puck_ was at a meet when Brittany lost her spanks, which, even though it was really fucking funny, doesn’t really seem like it’s your thing.”

Rachel shrugs. “Maybe we’ll pick up some interesting choreography from the other teams.”

“Well, whatever. It’s your money,” Santana finally says, when it’s clear that Rachel isn’t joking and might actually be _serious_ about coming for moral support.

It’s almost unreal how much has changed at McKinley High in the three and a half years she’s been there. Santana would be kidding herself if she didn’t admit that Quinn would’ve thrown a tantrum had the glee club shown up at a cheer competition in their sophomore year, and she would’ve been right next to Quinn to Slushie them out of the gymnasium.

Having Rachel and everyone else--God, _including_ Alice--there will still be _seriously_ embarrassing, but whatever. If she’s honest, it’s also pretty cool that they’re actually going to have _fans_.

*

It’s weird to be away at a cheer thing and not rooming with Britt, but she and Quinn have such limited time to spend with each other--the months are just ticking away--and some part of Santana knows that she’s going to miss Quinn _more_ once the year ends. (Or that she _should_ , anyway.)

Brittany’s been gone from her life in most ways that count for a long time, but Quinn lives with her and can keep up with her awful fucking moods, and--it’s just easier. It’s _so_ much easier.

She’s lining up hair care products in their hotel room while Quinn’s ironing their uniforms, and when she’s done, she hops up on the dresser and watches as Quinn fans out the first skirt and goes on to the other one.

“Did you ever think we’d be here, doing this?” she asks. “I mean, don’t ever tell the team this, but I seriously thought we were _fucked_ without Coach S. And the idea of us working _together_ without a hell of a lot of clawing at each other...”

Quinn smiles faintly before steaming the next skirt. “I know what you mean.”

“Seriously--how did it takes us _so long_ to stop all the bullshit and actually become friends?”

The skirt is flipped over and Quinn steams the other side, before pausing with the iron in mid-air. “I think we probably just care less, now, and it’s made everything easier.”

“Bullshit; I want to win this. If we go back without a trophy I’m blaming Madison and making her run wind sprints until she vomits orange,” Santana says.

Quinn grins. “Sue Sylvester has taught us well.”

“We make a good team,” Santana says; it’s meant to be a statement of fact, but it comes out sounding a little sad, because even co-captaining the Cheerios won’t last for that much longer.

“We’re all right, I guess. It’s nothing like you and Britt, but...”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Q. You’re my best friend.”

“I know, but still,” Quinn demurs, hanging one finished skirt on a hanger.

“No, no _but still_. I’d walk through a fucking fire for you, you know?”

Quinn smiles tremulously after a second and says, “If I get a full ride, I am going to work my _ass_ off so I can transfer to New York. I don’t even care if I need like seven part-time jobs or something. You know _that_ , right?”

Santana swallows hard and then rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay. I fucking know.”

Quinn’s next smile is more genuine. “And I won’t hesitate to push Rachel in front of a bus to take her place as your roommate, so--tell her that she better have some alternatives in place for 2013.”

Santana snorts and pats Quinn’s shoulder. “You probably won’t have to push Rachel in front of anything; I’ll probably have killed her within the first fucking month of waking up to her singing in the shower at 6 am.”

“I’m _so_ sorry I can’t save you from her,” Quinn says, with a grin, before stretching her arms out with a pop. “I’m going to take a bath. My muscles are so tight--”

“That’s what _she_ said.”.

“Ugh, what are you, _Puck_?”

Santana grins. “If I was Puck, I’d be trying to join you in that bath.”

The bathroom door slams shut on Quinn’s half-hearted glare.

*

Rachel, clearly in charge of most of the banners they’ve brought, is so fucking _dead_ to her right now. There are at least three that are just _her name_ with variations on fucking rainbows in the background.

She almost drops out of a basket toss when she spots them; it’s only years of severely forced muscle control that enable her to twist the totally fucked throw into a toe-touch at the last second.

Sam’s banner, on the other hand, is fucking amazing; he and Tina must’ve worked on it together, because they’ve drawn Santana as a little devil and Quinn as a little angel with a massive embossed Cheerios logo.

Rachel _probably_ won’t mind it being stretched out all over their living room.

*

Show choir trophies are just so sad and tiny compared the mammoth things they walk away with from cheer competitions; Santana can barely keep this mother up by herself, and sighs in relief when Quinn helps her prop it up for the press.

They then pose for a few requisite pictures for the sponsors--some PR lady shoves a rainbow banner in her hands when the HRC people show up, and it takes all of Santana’s media training to not try to strangle her with it--and then, everyone heads off to find their boyfriends or families, and...

She’s never felt so out of touch as in the moment where she looks for Brittany, instinctively, and Britt is already running off the field to go and meet Artie, who is whooping for her like she’s coming off a _Girls Gone Wild_ video.

It’s almost a slow-motion collision when they do make contact, and then there’s a hug and, damn, she bites her lip hard and looks for Quinn instead. (It’s not jealousy; it’s just that for _three years now_ , it’s just been her and Britt together when the trophies were being won, and...)

Quinn smiles at her, but from Puck’s arms; he’s lifted her up and is saying something about how it’s criminal that girls this flexible don’t put out, and she cuffs him on the head, but damn, they look so fucking happy together. Even if they’re not _together_.

Even Finn and Madison are being sort of gross slash cute right now, their hands tangling while he says, very sincerely, “You are _so_ good at handstands and stuff.”

It takes everyone else longer to get off the stands, and she feels her chest constrict horribly at the idea of just having that fucking _trophy_ to hug, but seconds later, Rachel’s made it down and almost tackles her with excitement. “You were _amazing_. I thought you were all going to die at least five times, and you are all going to have serious problems with sciatica and stunted bone development when you’re older, but it was _so_ impressive and grandiose, and--”

She can’t even bring herself to _not_ be grateful for Rachel’s overbearing bullshit. “Shut up, Rach,” she says, squeezing back hard, and then laughing when Sam makes a small _she’s crazy_ gesture over Rachel’s shoulder.

*

Quinn leans in close to her and says, “Permission to punch Berry in the face if she suggests we start working on our regionals routine right now, Captain.”

Santana laughs and says, “You don’t need permission, I’ll be right there with you.”

They’re having dinner at a Denny’s just outside of Canton, just because nobody can fucking afford to feed Finn unless it’s at an all-you-can-eat. Everyone seems to be having a good time, but Rachel has been weirdly quiet so far--which clearly can’t last.

“Where are nationals?” Kurt asks, from across the table. “I’m all for supporting grace and elegance, darlings, but as Blaine and I are going to be needing most of our savings just to see each other during vacation time next year...”

“Texas,” Quinn says.

“Ah,” is Kurt’s response, before he gingerly tries what _appears_ to be a green, with a very unhappy look on his face. “Well, in that case, may I offer my support to you by helping you design a twist on your current uniforms. If there’s anything I know about Texas, it’s that _overstated_ and _unsubtle_ will get you everywhere.”

“Awesome,” Brittany says, from the end of the table. “If you could work manatees into our logo, that would be like, amazing.”

Kurt stares at her for a moment and then sighs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Guys?” Rachel says, from the other end of the table, where she’s sitting with Puck and Tina. She gets up and taps her fork against her water glass, which--

“Oh, God, help me,” Quinn mumbles next to her.

 _My thoughts exactly_ , Santana thinks, but she can’t really vocalize it because she’s far too busy staring at Rachel with a horrified look on her face.

“I just wanted to say how happy I am that we came today. I stand corrected on my earlier feelings about cheerleading,” Rachel says, seriously and with so much overinflated self-importance that Santana goes from abject horror to subtle amusement in about two seconds. “It is a showcase of talent; specifically, a gymnastic talent that I must admit to not having been blessed with myself. The three of you are tremendously good at what you do, and I feel privileged to have backup singers that possess this level of grace.”

Quinn nearly spits out a mouthful of food even as Santana narrows her eyes and says, “ _Back-up singers_? Oh, I’m going to fucking hurt you...”

“Thanks, Rachel,” Brittany adds, after a moment, digging into some more pasta. “That was really sweet. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you but you’re like, a really good singer.”

“God, _B_ , don’t _encourage_ her,” Mercedes hisses.

“So, now that we’ve seen what our dancing companions can _actually_ do,” Rachel continues, completely undisturbed, “I would like to propose raising the difficulty level for our own regional and national routines.”

Quinn starts slowly counting to ten under her breath; Santana just shakes her head at Rachel. Even _Puck_ raises his eyebrows and puts a hand on Rachel’s hip. “Dude, Rach, seriously. _Not_ the time. Let’s just chill out or something.”

“It’s _always_ the time,” Rachel protests. “I want to _destroy_ Vocal Adrenaline this year. I don’t just want to _crush_ them; I want to hurt them so badly that every time even _a single one_ of their members tries to sing somewhere innocuous like the shower, they will be overwhelmed with feelings of despair and self-loathing so potent that they belong in a Kafka novel.”

“Wow,” Kurt says, raising his eyebrows. “Frightening, and yet, impressive.”

“And we can _do it_ ,” Rachel says, with an emphatic fist to the table. “Now, who’s with me?”

Finn _very_ tentatively raises his hand, after a long pause.

Santana takes one look at Quinn and starts laughing hysterically.

*

Rachel sulks on the ride back.

Santana just rolls her eyes at her and says, “Are you still bent out of shape because we just wanted to have a normal meal? Jesus Christ.”

“I just don’t see why nobody can take me seriously. I encourage _other_ people’s dreams; I told Sam to go and talk to Tina about banner art, and I’m helping Noah write a song that he wants to play to Beth. I even watched last year’s NCA nationals on an ESPN rerun two weeks ago just so I would be able to understand the scoring procedures. I just don’t understand why--”

“Hey,” Santana says softly; they’re talking quietly because nearly everyone else in the bus is nodding off. “This isn’t about supporting or not supporting you. I have your back, okay? I will do whatever you need, just _not tonight_.”

Rachel sighs but seems to be willing to let it go.

“You were really good,” she says, after a moment. “I recorded some of the routine for my dads and your mom, and you have really good--what is it, elevation?”

“Air,” Santana corrects, and winces when she shifts in her seat. They’re going to _regret_ that second crunch time pyramid at the end of the routine tomorrow. “And, thanks, but that’s mostly just body shape. Good stomach muscle control aside, I can’t really do anything to help the base when they toss me.”

“Hmm, well, if you say so, but that doesn’t explain this...” Rachel says, and then produces a camcorder; a few seconds later, she’s showing Santana a part of the routine, and man, she is _not_ a fan of watching herself do anything, but Rachel rewinds and replays her hold and dismount off a Swedish Fall 2.5, and, well, _yeah_.

She’s the best on the squad on top level. (Though it doesn’t hurt that Quinn has probably the most steady split lift she’s _ever_ seen in a cheerleader, which makes it pretty easy to stay up there.)

“Really. Look at you. _And_ Quinn,” Rachel says, softly. “You’re both amazing.”

“Yeah, well, _duh_. We’re national _champions_. We work our fucking asses off; it’s not just a popularity contest, you know,” Santana says, a little more crabbily than she means to.

“I obviously knew you were good; knowing and seeing are just two different things,” Rachel responds, without looking at her. She flips the camera shut a moment later.

“Sorry. I just--whatever. It’s been a long day,” Santana says, trying not to sigh.

Rachel gives her an indecipherable look, just for a second, but then quickly says, “I’ve been thinking some more about how to re-arrange _L.E.S. Artistes_ to make it more choral. But... we can talk about that tomorrow.”

Santana rolls her eyes, and falls asleep almost immediately afterwards.

*

In the end, glee regionals are exactly as anti-climactic as sectionals had been. They clean house easily, and their little trophy gets a swift ride back to the choir room, where Mr. Schue polishes it before placing it in the small case next to the 2010 Nationals Trophy that Coach Sylvester has locked up so tightly that nobody can move it.

Even Rachel seems underwhelmed, and when Santana nudges her, she just says, “It was too easy. There wasn’t any element of overcoming challenge or surpassing our own best. Don’t get me wrong, we were both very good; but... I just want to beat Vocal Adrenaline, because they are the best, and we _deserve_ to compete with the best.”

The little New Directions are listening to Schue give a speech about how badly the club did two years ago, and some part of Santana is very amused by the disbelief on their faces--but it also brings home a key lesson about where they have come from, as a club.

“We can take them, as long as we show up there feeling like the underdogs,” she says, out loud, before glancing at Rachel. “Remember how hard we all tried when you told us that we weren’t pulling our weight and you wouldn’t be able to carry us all forever? I mean, we fucking hated you, obviously, but--”

Rachel squeezes her into a hug a moment later and then gets up and looks at her seriously. “I’m _really_ sorry I ever said you would be limited to a career in stripping. It was uncalled for and inaccurate. You’re brilliant.”

“Whatever,” Santana says, because this is _so_ two years ago now. “I would _never_ be a stripper. High class escort or bust, so fuck you.”

Rachel gives her a little half-smile in response, and then, _bam_ , whistles on her fingers, hard. “Mr. Schue, if I may--Santana has just reminded me of something that we should all become reacquainted with before nationals.”

Everyone starts grumbling and rolling their eyes, but glee club really isn’t what it was three years ago anymore; Schue gives Rachel the floor without being a bitch about it, and everyone else actually listens when she’s talking.

(Well, for the first two minutes anyway, but even Rachel has changed--most of her point’s come across by then.)

*

They’re having a girls’ night in about two weeks after regionals, and Brittany is painting Santana’s toes a really, really awful shade of baby blue that she doesn’t really have the heart to object to.

(She doesn’t really know if she’ll _ever_ have the willpower to say no to Brittany, no matter what she’s asking, which is why they haven’t been alone together since they’ve been ice-skating.

Everyone thinks she’s over it, and she’s _fine_ with Artie and everything, but it’s just--)

Quinn’s flipping through an issue of _Cosmo_ with occasional bits of scathing commentary, and really, Santana is just a little bitter that all of high school wasn’t like this.

“We should go on a road trip,” Britt says, capping the nail polish again.

On the TV, in the background, Kate Hudson is talking to some guy about how love is the only thing worth living for and whatever, and Quinn rolls her eyes and stops the movie before Santana can even say something.

“Where to?” Santana asks.

“Columbus. So we can see where Quinn’s going to live next year,” Britt says, easily. “I mean, I want to see where you’re going to live, too, but New York is like, across an ocean. I don’t think we can get that far in a weekend.”

Santana tries to hide a smile and then raises her eyebrows at Quinn. “What do you think? Is this going to depress the crap out of you, or what?”

Quinn exhales slowly and then shrugs. “I’ll have to see it eventually. Why not?”

*

Puck drives them there, but then excuses himself to go to a guitar center to pick up some stuff that he can’t get in Lima.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with the look on Quinn’s face, which--well.

They’re strolling along the waterfront when Quinn abruptly turns away from them and looks at the water, and Santana knows well enough to leave alone.

“You know what I learned on that website with all the facts?” Brittany says; they’re not really touching, but their arms are brushing past each other when they’re walking anyway, and Santana honestly doesn’t think she’s been this tense since that confrontation out by the locker rooms, almost a full year ago.

“Hm?”

“Columbus is the 18th best place in the country to find boyfriends, and the second most sexually satisfied city in the country. And that’s _before_ Puck moves there,” Brittany says, sounding immensely pleased with herself.

Quinn’s shoulders start shaking; Santana just looks at Brittany. “Uh.”

“Yeah. So if Quinn ever has sex again it’ll probably be really good.”

The laughter coming from Quinn is a surprise, and even though she’s clearly fighting some tears, it seems to snap her out of her bad mood. “Thanks, Britt. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Can we go see that famous boat now?” Britt asks. “Christopher Cross lives there, and I want to get a picture with him so we can show Mr. Schue.”

*

They stroll around most of the city, meeting up with Puck again to eat some Chipotle before they head back; Brittany’s taken a shitload of pictures and even bought some tourist swag. _From Columbus_.

Some part of Santana feels a twinge of relief that this isn’t where her hard-earned cash is going in the future, but mostly, Brittany’s misguided enthusiasm is the only thing that stops the day from being a total fucking disaster.

The drive back home is mostly quiet; Brittany’s in the front with Puck, and they’re playing some sort of car spotting game. Santana’s not really paying attention to what they’re doing, because she’s too busy being worried about the muted contemplative look on Quinn’s face.

“Hey. Columbus isn’t so bad,” she finally says. “I mean, it’s a _city_ , at least.”

“You and Rachel should sort out your living arrangements soon,” Quinn says in response.

Santana doesn’t really know how to take that, but when she reaches for Quinn’s hand, Quinn doesn’t stop her from gripping it.

*

In the end, it’s desperation that leads to her talking about this, because _God_ knows she doesn’t want to. (Not really, anyway--though she’s starting to think that maybe she _has_ to.)

But Quinn won’t stop staring blankly at the wall once they get back, and it’s not like anyone else can deal with Quinn. Puck isn’t actually her boyfriend or whatever, so his useless ass isn’t going to be making her feel better.

“I think I’m still in love with Britt,” she says, just because shock will probably snap Quinn out of it faster than anything else. “I really thought I wasn’t anymore, and I’m not like going to shove Artie off a bridge or anything, but sometimes she fucking looks at me and I actually have to _remind_ myself that I can’t just drag her upstairs and...”

“Yeah,” Quinn responds, giving Santana a tired smile, moments later. “I get the feeling that she doesn’t know how to be anything other than your friend the way she was before, which... well. Friendly isn’t exactly the word.”

“And that’s on me,” Santana admits. “Rachel … you know, when we fought last year. It was because she said that I’m the reason we’re not together. Because I told her over and over again we couldn’t actually be in a real relationship, and …”

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Quinn says, folding her legs under her body and then sighing. “I don’t want to be a bitch about this, but it doesn’t really matter what you could have done different. She’s _with_ Artie. She’s chosen him over and over again.”

“Yeah,” Santana says, and flops onto her back; she almost manages to convince herself that Quinn didn’t just twist the knife something awful. “I just wish there was someone else. You know, _anyone_ I could distract myself with.”

“Some things, you just can’t be distracted from,” Quinn says, bluntly, before going back to staring at the wall.

*

In the end, the only distraction she gets is Rachel’s fucking manic schedule of things they need to do before they can decide on a place to live in. Apparently location is _everything_ , on top of price, availability, and size.

“So basically we need a place that will fit both of our shit and doesn’t require an hour on the subway every morning to get to class and wherever you’re going to go,” Santana says, staring her down.

Rachel smiles after a moment. “Yes. I think that’s about it.”

“Okay, well, I’ll go and make a list and then you can show me what you find and we’ll see if there’s anything we fucking agree on. Ever.”

“Bear in mind that I _need_ to have room for the elliptical in my bedroom,” Rachel says. “And I’d really like to take the piano, also, but--”

Santana shuts her up with a look. “Two rooms, two beds, a fucking couch, and a kitchen and a bathroom. I know this is a word you’re probably not at all familiar with, but we need to be _realistic_. I’m going to be broke-ass-broke, and I won’t necessarily have the _time_ to find a job right away. Barnard’s supposed to be seriously hardcore, okay.”

Rachel visibly deflates and then says, “I just--I’ve thought about living in New York for _so_ long. I want it to be as much like I’ve always imagined it as possible.”

“Yeah, well, I too had some thoughts about how kick-ass my future was going to be, but guess what? I’m going to be living there _without_ my best friend, _without_ someone who... whatever, _and_ I’m going to have a fucking mountain of debt,” Santana snaps. She doesn’t mean to sound so bitter, or so angry, and she _definitely_ doesn’t mean to hurt Rachel’s feelings, but manages all of that anyway.

“We don’t _have_ to live together,” Rachel says dully, after a moment. “I know I’m not Quinn, and I’m not going to be a booster to your collegiate popularity, and--”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Rachel, shut up. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No, I don’t, actually. All I know is what you said, which was really unnecessary, given that it’s always been clear to me that I’m at best your third choice.”

Rachel’s voice keeps climbing with every word in that sentence, and Santana pinches the bridge of her nose. There’s not really anything she can say to make that better that wouldn’t also be a lie. “Whatever. All I’m saying is, let’s _not_ spend a fucking fortune on a place that only one of us will be living in most of the time. It’s not like you’re not going to be spending most of your time travelling down to Philly to see Sam.”

Rachel gives her an almost blank look for a moment, but then sighs and says, “I guess the piano isn’t a necessity. And … maybe I could join a gym.”

Santana is silent for a long moment and then grudgingly says, “You know, third still puts you above a hell of a lot of other people that I’d _never_ fucking share a house with.”

Rachel doesn’t acknowledge that it’s an apology, but straightens out the papers on her bed and then says, “We’re having vegan brisket; do you want to stay?”

That shit sounds too weird to be real, so of _course_ she stays.

*

Black Berry throws a dish towel at her without comment. Santana feels a twinge of something at the idea that there will only be so many more times that she’s going to be in this kitchen doing dishes; it’s actually way zen, and she figures that whatever dishes with Rachel will be like, it won’t be this nice and fucking quiet.

“She driving you crazy with her housing lists yet?” Black Berry asks, about three minutes in.

Santana tries not to smile. “You’re married to the male version of her, right? Just let me know how bad this is going to get.”

“Be glad you don’t have enough money to think about decorating,” Black Berry says, also smiling.

“Kurt would _never_ let her make decorating choices. Nor would I, actually.”

Black Berry silently washes a few more plates, and then puts a halfway-wet hand her shoulder and squeezes, hard. “I know this isn’t how _you_ envisioned going to college, but Hiram and I are _so_ happy that Rachel isn’t going to be out there on her own.”

“Whatever,” Santana says, now feeling like a _total_ asshole about the third choice thing. “It makes sense. Better to live with someone whose crazy you know than some total stranger, right?”

*

When she gets back home, Quinn is in the living room, surrounded by small stacks of paperwork.

“What’s up?” she asks, sitting down across from her, on the other sofa. “Legal shit?”

“Housing,” Quinn says, and Santana feels her good mood evaporate, until Quinn looks up with a faint smile. “I’ve … decided I’m going to pledge.”

“ _Not_ with Delta Psi,” Santana says, immediately. “Like, I’ve met your mother, Q. Those Jesus-loving weirdos could probably turn anyone into an alcoholic, and anyway, blue-balling or not, you’re not _that_ uptight anymore.”

“Oh, _thanks_ ,” Quinn says, dripping with sarcasm. “I hadn’t even considered them, obviously.”

“So where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet. I think I’ll wait for Puck to pick a fraternity and then join the sister one, just because someone has to warn those poor girls what they’re getting into.”

Santana smiles knowingly. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

“Honestly, it will just be good to be... you know, around people,” Quinn says, and then shrugs with a smile. “Even if those people include Puck.”

“Mmhmm,” Santana says, dryly, but moves over next to Quinn anyway and looks at the print-outs. “Okay, so, first of all, _no Christian sororities_ , full stop. Let’s face it, your abstinence is barely even going to last past the first three weeks of college, and once you’re doing the nasty on the regular you _really_ don’t want to be living in some four storey prayer circle for your soul of the rest of the year.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“What, I’m just being _honest_.”

“Yeah, well, you _deserve_ living with Berry next year. I hope I’ve been right all these years and an overdose of her personality _is_ in fact fatal,” Quinn snarks, but shoves a print-out towards her anyway.

*

Getting Quinn to consider some of the sororities that look like they host wet t-shirt contests is a challenge, but Santana isn’t one to back down from those. The little smile on Quinn’s face when she rolls her eyes and adds one a few actually _decent_ Greeks to the ‘maybe’ stack is more or less worth the two hour argument, anyway.

All in all, it’s the first time Quinn has looked _okay_ about OSU, _and_ the first time that she and Rachel have even halfway seriously talked about living together next year.

Somehow, even though this is all still almost half a year away, it all feels spectacularly _real_ out of nowhere. So real, in fact, that it wakes her up in the middle of the night.

She barges into Quinn’s bedroom almost immediately afterwards and flicks on the light switch.

Quinn blinks at her blearily. “What...”

“I’m going to New York … with _Rachel,_ ” Santana blurts out, giving Quinn what she knows is a slightly terrified look. “ _Rachel Berry_ and I are going to be living together. I am going to shack up with the world’s worst dressed dwarf. She won’t _ever_ shut the fuck up …and she probably thinks we need cleaning schedules and … and she’s going to try to turn me into a fucking _vegan_ and Jesus, Quinn, I _like meat_. I don’t want to give up meat for _Rachel fucking Berry_!”

Hyperventilating just is _not kosher_ , so she forces herself to take a deep breath.

“Yeah... I’ve been wondering when your nervous breakdown about this would take place,” Quinn says, looking amused.

“Quinn--I’m _moving in_ with _Rachel Berry_ ,” Santana repeats, because she just _can’t_ get that shit out of her head.

Quinn sits up a little more, yawns, and then says, “Is this a good time to break open that bottle of tequila in your desk?”

Santana only _barely_ manages to sit down on the edge of Quinn’s bed and nod.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this story was rated R or something before now, but it actually earns that rating in this chapter, so bear in mind. Many thanks to B for her positive suggestions & improvements, and many thanks to the rest of you for all your encouragement. Writing this is turning out very rewarding so thank you all so much! (For notes on all the songs picked for Nationals 2012: see thememoriesfire.tumblr.com.)

4.

So.

There’s exams and shit, but by now all of them know where (and if) they’re going to college, and none of their offers are conditional on 4.0s for their final semester, so nobody really studies for anything. Instead, everyone is just wigging out about nationals; the show choir ones, mostly, but before those take place, they’re off to Texas for cheer nationals.

They don’t win, but they place, and it’s somehow so much fucking better than it was the last time that it doesn’t even really matter. Santana’s mom is in the audience and Quinn’s older sister, who lives in Austin, drove for like three or four hours or something to come and watch it. There is so much fucking crying going on afterwards that Quinn jokingly says that the ghost of Sue Sylvester is going to come and choke them later that night, but all in all, when she looks over the Polaroids that Allison shot of them right after they won a few days after (when she can walk again)--this is probably the happiest that all of them have ever looked in that uniform.

When they get back, Puck and Finn have conspired together to finally break open that 2010 Nationals Trophy case - it might be bulletproof, but they borrow a battering ram from somewhere (seriously, nobody wants to know) and with Lauren’s help, after about three hours, the entire case breaks down.

Coach Beiste gives them the money to glass up their own 2012 Nationals Runner-Up Trophy, and Mr. Schue gives them a frame for their team picture of that year.

“ _These_ are the Cheerios that belong in the choir room,” he just says, when they unveil the new case to a very-surprised Quinn and Santana as captains, and fuck if she doesn’t cry all over again.

(Puck gives her a set of raised eyebrows that just says _dude, you need to get laid_ , but whatever. Everyone looks so fucking happy for them that it doesn’t even matter that she’s turning into some sort of pussy mess weeks before they all graduate.)

After cheerleading ends, and the three of them get together to hold a sort of joking memorial service for the uniforms they lived and breathed in for the last four years, Rachel pounces on them like a not-really-declawed tiger.

“We only have _one month_ ,” she says in their first meeting after the win, already almost frantic. “We _have_ to focus and come up with songs.”

“Is this a democracy now?” Quinn asks, raising an eyebrow.

Mr. Schue sighs and rolls his eyes and says, “Guys, I reserve the right to overrule anything you propose, but--this is your year. It’s not about me.”

“Great time for him to realize that,” Tina mumbles behind Santana, who unsuccessfully tries to clamp down on a snort.

“Guys, can we like--go to BreadstiX tonight as a group or something and just hang out and talk about this?” Finn proposes.

Santana still doesn’t like his muggy cheating ass, but man, is he ever the perfect antidote to Rachel, as far as co-captaincy goes.

“Love me some BreadstiX,” Mercedes says, low-fiving Kurt.

Rachel looks a little confused, but when Santana raises a pretty pointed eyebrow at her, Rachel sighs and says, “I _guess_ we can work on choices over dinner.”

“Better leave your lists at home, Rach,” Puck says, with a grin. “Try to narrow it down to a top five or whatever.”

“I don’t think I’m physically capable of that,” Rachel says, with a little slump to her shoulders; Quinn starts laughing first, but then everyone else joins in, and Santana gets hit right in the chest with this funny little feeling:

These may be the best friends she’ll ever have.

*

The genre they’re meant to choose in for nationals is _modern pop_ , and after some discussion with Mr. Schue, Rachel has managed to get approval for choosing songs that say “goodbye” as the red thread that will run through their selections.

None of them can agree on what either of those things means, so finally Quinn just shoves a notebook around and gets everyone to write down their suggestions; they then place the notebook on the center of the table and look at it.

“I’m discounting my suggestion immediately,” Mike says, with a small smile. “Tina’s is better, and I chose mine primarily because I know Britt and I would kick ass dancing to it, but Nationals is bound to be more about singing than dancing. Right?”

“Oh, well, then, get rid of mine as well,” Britt says.

Quinn takes a marker to _With Every Heartbeat_ and _What Goes Around (Comes Around)_ , and then they look at the rest of the list.

“I like my pick, but I don’t think the girls are going to sound good on it,” Finn says, after a moment.

“I love that song, but it’s too even; we need to show some range, yo,” Mercedes says. When Finn nods, Quinn draws a line through _Train in Vain_.

“Um, _Love is a Battlefield_ isn’t actually about … goodbyes?” Tina asks, after a moment.

“Whatever. That song _kicks ass_ ,” Lauren says, crossing her arms. “Though now I’m trying to picture Rachel singing it, and it’s making me want to puke.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Rachel says; Santana is grateful to Sam for distracting her with a kiss, because God knows the bitch would just break into song in the middle of BreadstiX if left to her own devices.

“If that song’s going, then so should mine,” Puck says, pointing at _High and Dry_. “Shit’s awesome, but it’s not about like, breaking up and whatever.”

Quinn smiles and removes two more selections, which leaves them with eight.

“I see Ms. Berry and I had similar thoughts,” Kurt says, with a small smile that Rachel immediately returns, before sighing.

“I think _Take a Bow_ is a poignant commentary on how this marks the end of one part of my career-- _our_ careers, but I will concede that _This Used to be My Playground_ usually brings me to tears, so...”

“Wait, are you actually backing my choice?” Kurt says, looking shocked.

“Do the rest of you know the song?” Rachel asks, ignoring him.

Some people shrug, others go “yeah”, and Quinn finally says, “Why don’t you prepare it? We’ll vote on it in practice tomorrow.”

If Santana didn’t think he was too classy for it, Kurt would _totally_ have a glee-related boner right now. It’s kind of sweet, in a really wrong way.

Quinn’s marker moves down to _Melt Your Heart_ , which Santana could sing from memory on the spot because it’s by that fucking Jenny Lewis chick that Quinn just _will not_ stop listening to--and it’s pretty, and Quinn would make it flow like a lullaby, but: “Q, much as I think you’d be great on it, that song does not pack enough punch for Nationals.”

“I know,” Quinn says, not even really with a sigh, and crosses it out.

Kurt clears his throat and says, “At the risk of being predictable, I am going to put a vote behind Mercedes’ pick. I think it’s perfect, actually, and the harmonies on it are great.”

“Yes, and I wonder who would get to solo it,” Rachel mutters, rolling her eyes.

“Girl, this is Mariah. I’m gonna need another big voice to carry me through,” Mercedes says, with a pointed, stubborn look that makes Santana smile unwillingly. “And you might be the biggest white girl I know, but you’re also the _only_ white girl I know who could pull this off.”

Quinn looks around the table and then says, “Okay, so we’ll hear that later this week--”

“We could do with some male harmonies,” Rachel says, and glances around the table. “Artie and Sam, maybe?”

“I’m down,” Artie says; Sam shrugs after a moment and says, “I’m not really a Mariah Carey fan, but--”

“Oh, please, I’m pretty sure I caught you singing _Dreamlover_ in the shower the other day,” Rachel says, with a laugh. Sam raises his eyebrows at her, and she flushes abruptly when she realizes what she’s implied. “I was in a _different room_ , okay. My God, you perverts. He just sings loudly when he thinks he’s alone.”

Santana rolls her eyes and says, “ _Anyway_. I vote for my choice, just because we could use a little bit of spicing up. Most of you are about as sexy as a patch full of My Little Ponies, and singing about a quick dirty hook-up can only help us out at this point.”

“I thought that song was about prostitutes,” Finn says, after a moment.

“Dude, you listen to Prince?” Puck asks, sounding a little horrified.

“ _No_. It’s … Rachel has it on her karaoke machine,” Finn mumbles.

Quinn laughs and says, “I’m sorry, Santana, but I’m going to have to veto this just because I’m not making my high school coda a song about the beauty of one night stands.”

“Agreed,” Tina says, before placing a finger next to her choice. “I went with _If You Leave Me Now._ It’s cliche, but it’s on target.”

Nobody can think of anything to say in protest, so Tina gets the third try-out; then Artie says, “I decided to switch things up a bit and _not_ back Michael for a change, and Mr. Schue still thinks that really bad pop is the ticket to getting the crowd on board. Plus, who doesn’t love George Michael?”

“Me,” Finn and Puck say simultaneously.

“Artie, it’s a good pick, but that song is like seven minutes long and there isn’t a clear good part; it’s _all_ good,” Mercedes says.

“I like it,” Brittany says, with a shrug.

“Well, see if you can shorten it well, and then we’ll give it a go,” Quinn says, before circling _Everything She Wants_ as their fourth potential. “We’ve got four.”

Rachel’s finger tracks down the list quickly and then she frowns at them. “Which one of you didn’t put anything down?”

Sam raises his hand sheepishly. “I have an idea, but... I kind of want it to be a surprise, if that’s okay with all of you.”

Rachel looks at him curiously but there’s not really any reason to say _no_ , so Quinn writes down “Sam’s Song” as their fifth. “All done.”

“I can’t believe I just let someone else compile a setlist for Glee club,” Rachel says, looking at the end product. “That’s--wow.”

“Trust me, I think you’re the least shocked of all of us,” Puck grins at her, and gets a laugh and a high-five from Finn.

“Well. Good work, everyone,” Rachel says, somewhat graciously, and Sam slings an arm around her shoulder for just a second.

 _Vomit_ , Santana thinks, because--it’s not actually physically possible for two people to be even cuter than those two, and that’s with Quinn probably playing footsie with Puck under the table, even. (If that bitch still thinks she’s being subtle, …. _seriously_.)

“Can we get some more bread sticks up in here?” Santana yells at the waitress, who almost cowers in response.

*

She and Quinn and Rachel and Sam somehow end up being the last to leave; most of the boys file off to Finn’s for a retro Counterstrike LAN Party (whatever that is) and Britt, Tina and Mercedes are off to see the new Zac Efron movie.

Sam offers to pay for all of them, and Quinn just sighs and slides ten bucks towards him with a pointed, “Stop being so nice. Seriously. People are going to take advantage of you all your life if you don’t learn to be a little bit meaner.”

“It’s just a check,” Sam says, looking to Santana for support.

“Much as I _don’t_ say no to freebies, you really don’t need to,” she says, with a shrug.

“I know I don’t _need_ to, it’s just--ugh,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and getting up to go pay.

Rachel’s looking at her contemplatively; has been for about a minute now, and she finally waves at her. “What’s up with you?”

“What was with your song choice today?” Rachel asks.

“What? I love Prince,” Santana says, not really sure why she’s getting defensive, but she knows she is. “I love _most_ shit from the 1980s. You know that.”

“Yeah, but, come on, we can't sing _that_ song. You don’t normally blow your chances at singing a solo like that. You’re too self-absorbed,” Rachel says.

Quinn snorts and says, “Wow. Pot, kettle. Meet each other.”

“I didn’t _blow_ it, you dumb assholes overruled my perfectly valid choice.”

Rachel’s lips purse for a second, and then she says, “I fully thought you were going to propose _Rolling in the Deep_ , and I was ready to sacrifice one of my _own_ solos to have you sing it.”

“I--what?” Santana says, as convincingly as she can.

She knows what this is about; she slept over at Rachel a few weeks ago and it came on while Rachel was taking a shower or whatever, and she’d started singing along without even meaning to. It’s one of those songs that she wishes she _didn’t_ have all the words memorized to. They hit way too fucking close to home.

Quinn leans back in her seat and says, “Actually... I can see it.”

“No,” Santana says.

“You can still put it on the list, if you want. As co-captain, and resident list-maker, I’m sure we have that authority,” Rachel suggests.

Quinn’s already digging the list out of her bag again, and Santana puts a hand on her arm to stop her. “I said _no_.”

“Why not?” Rachel asks, now a little annoyed. “You know how much it would mean to everyone else to win. I don’t see why we wouldn’t use every advantage we can get, and your voice is _special_ , Santana. The other teams aren’t going to have anyone who does sixties throwback in the way you do.”

“It’s not _special_. We’ve done it before. It’s not even a fucking surprise, and that song has been performed by like, every show choir from here to Oklahoma in the past year,” Santana objects, sharply.

Rachel throws her hands up in the air. “Why are you being so difficult about this? You _really_ connected with it when I heard you sing it at my house; and you know I don’t extend flattery about performances that don’t warrant it. You actually sounded like your heart was _breaking_ , which--”

“Berry--” Quinn says, warningly, but it’s too late. There it is, that little knife in her chest called Brittany, and Rachel’s just managed to dig it in a little deeper.

“God. You’re fucking lucky if I don’t _kill_ you anytime in the first semester next year,” Santana manages to say, knowing it comes out much more feebly than she wants it to, and she _hates_ that it hurts. She just hates everything about that song, and this conversation.

“Santana, I--” Rachel starts, looking confused but apologetic.

“ _Don’t_ ,” she snaps, snatching her jacket on the way out without looking back.

 

*

Of course, she’s depending on Quinn for a ride back, who for whatever fucking reason decides to stay in BreadstiX for at least another ten minutes, and so she’s just sort of aimlessly wandering around the parking lot. She almost keys Quinn’s car out of boredom when Sam shows up next to her and says, “Hey. You okay?”

She does _not_ have the patience to deal with him being fucking nice to her some more. “I’d be fine if your girlfriend could just keep her fucking mouth shut when she needs to.”

“I’m pretty sure that teaching Rachel to pick her moments is a life-long project,” he says, easily, leaning against Quinn’s car with her. He looks down at the hood for a moment and then sighs. “It’s weird, isn’t it. That we’re all together and hanging out. I mean, I’ve dated all three of you.”

“You’ve dated the two of them; we just used each other,” Santana corrects him, because it’s the truth.

Sam rubs his hands together. “Rachel means well. I know she sometimes can really stick her foot in it, but it’s only because she wants the best for all of you.”

“You mean herself.”

Sam tilts his head in concession. “Mostly herself, but … you do _know_ that you’re the best friend she’s ever had, right?”

Santana sighs and rolls her eyes simultaneously. “Is there any particular _reason_ you’re out here with me?”

“Yeah. I thought I’d cheer you up and then ask you for a favor,” he says, easily.

It’s ridiculous that she kind of fucking likes him now. Maybe it’s the absence of Sue Sylvester from her life that’s making her all fucking soft; two hundred 4am sit-ups should get it out of her system, if that’s the case.

“I don’t do favors. Unless they’re sexual, and … sorry, but you know you’re not my type.”

Sam smiles and picks at his jacket for a second, before saying, “I’m a little worried. About--you know, New York.”

“What, because all little Midwestern girls that go to college there end up getting stabbed and mugged?” She raises her eyebrows at him. “We’ll be fine. I know jujitsu, and Rachel just needs to open her fucking mouth to drive any potential rapists away.”

Sam laughs at her (like, seriously, _at_ her) and says, “I still can’t believe we actually dated.”

“What’s the fucking favor, Frodo?” she says, because he’s dragging this out like crazy.

“I just--want to make Nationals something really special for Rachel. You know, not just because we’re going to win it--” and damn, Santana almost laughs at how well-trained that comes out, “--but because ...” He trails off for a moment and then adds, “She’s always wanted someone to actually sing a song _to_ her, and … I guess I just want to make that happen.”

“You are _such_ a fucking girl,” Santana says, after a moment. “Seriously, I might reconsider my ban on sexual favors because clearly you’re growing a vagina somewhere.”

Sam sighs and pushes off the hood. “Forget I said anything.”

He’s already two cars over when she sighs and calls out his name. “What song did you have in mind?”

“It’s a good one,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning around. “But it has a high harmony that I can’t pull off by myself, and everyone else who could is already preparing stuff for this week, so.”

“So you want me to help you sing some fucking love song to your girlfriend,” Santana says, crossing her arms. “What’s in it for me?”

“Doing something cool for Rachel?” Sam suggests, rocking back on his heels with an expectant look on his face. And okay, so maybe _he’s_ kind of cute, and maybe Rachel and he are actually all fucking in love with each other, and--if she sings this song with him, Rachel is going to _have_ to let up about that fucking Adele song.

She’d rather die than _ever_ sing about her own feelings in front of Brittany again.

“Throw in three BreadstiX dinners and you’ve got yourself a deal, Ewok.”

He smiles. “ _Two_ , and I won’t tell anyone that you know what an Ewok is.”

She takes it.

*

“What the fuck took you so long?” she asks Quinn, who just shrugs when she unlocks her car.

“Girl talk.”

“With _Rachel_?”

“Yes, with _Rachel_. And, before you ask, she’s clearly still alive, _and_ what we talked about is none of your business,” Quinn says, sliding into the driver’s seat without even really looking at her.

“Whatever, you ho. I just want to be prepared if the world is ending. I wasn’t planning on fucking anyone in Lima ever again, but if these are the last 24 hours of my life, I think I’m going to be a lot less picky,” Santana says, slamming her door shut.

“Look, it’s not like we’re ever going to be actual friends. Too much has happened for that,” Quinn says, after a pregnant pause, and then starts the car. “But I’d like to be able to come see you in New York without walking on eggshells around her because she _still_ thinks I’m going to Slushie her while she’s sleeping, so...”

“Whatever,” Santana says, rolling down the window and hanging her hand out of it.

Quinn’s hand grasps her thigh a moment later and squeezes, which feels sort of like a _sorry she brought up that song,_ or maybe even a _sorry that you still feel this way._

Santana lets out a slow breath and closes her eyes.

*

 _This is the gayest song I’ve ever heard and I spend a lot of time with Kurt FYI_ , she texts to Sam, when he’s emailed her his intended Nationals song.

 _Listen to the high part in the chorus. Can you hit that?_ he sends back, and well, of fucking _course_ she can. She’s a girl, and a _great_ fucking singer.

*

They rehearse in the attic at Sam’s uncle’s house.

Of course he’s playing it on guitar, and she can’t stop rolling her eyes, but … somewhere around the fifth time she’s singing the song kind of gets to her--she _swears_ she’s not thinking about Brittany at the time, even--and so she puts a little more effort into it.

The guitar hums to silence slowly at the end and Sam says, “Cool. That’s it, I think.”

“Whatever,” she says, because it’s a little weird being back in his room - she can’t actually believe she had sex in this dork paradise more than once, and that Gremlins poster he has hanging almost directly above his bed really isn’t helping her not laugh right now. “I’m off to do something that will make me feel _less_ like a twelve year old girl at a Bieber concert.”

Sam calls out her name when she’s at the top of the stairs. “She’ll like it, right?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “It’s _Rachel_. She’s probably going to weep hysterically while clutching at her chest like she’s accepting a Tony. You’re...”

Sam looks at her expectantly, when her thought sort of trails off--but it’s the truth, and Sam’s always been honest with her, so--why not.

“All the ways in which Finn let her down, you’re making up for,” she says, with a grudging little smile. “Which doesn’t mean it’s not the most spectacularly emasculating thing you’ve ever done, but, _yeah_ , Sam. She’ll like it.”

“Thanks for helping me. You didn’t have to,” he says, after a moment.

“Just get me my coupons,” she reminds him, and then heads off home.

*

Sam insists they go last, and so Santana first spends a good half an hour listening to Kurt and Rachel (flawless, but _way_ too fucking depressing), Artie (hilarious), Mercedes and Rachel (fucking awesome, and definitely her first pick for Nationals so far) and Tina (passable, but missing something).

Then, Sam reaches for his guitar and gives her a look, and with a sigh she slinks down to the floor, where he’s got two stools set up for them already. It’s almost like a GSA meeting, except much more awkward; she doesn’t normally spend _those_ singing love songs to people who aren’t her fucking girlfriends.

“So--the theme is goodbye,” Sam says, tuning the guitar and not looking up. “And I’ve been thinking about this a lot, obviously, because you all know I’m moving to Philadelphia next year and Rachel is going to be in New York. It’s roughly a hundred miles; I’ll know a more exact number once she and Santana figure out where they’re going to live.”

The entire room is quietly watching this happen, and Sam sweeps his fingers along the guitar just once, before clamping his hand down on it again, silencing it, and looking at Rachel.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t _want_ to say goodbye. I know we haven’t really talked about what we’re going to do next year, but...”

Santana glances at Quinn, who looks really uncomfortable for just a moment; then, she pulls that incredibly poker face on and really, it’s just everyone else in the room that’s shifting around awkwardly.

“Well, you’ll get it,” Sam says, with a small smile, before looking at Santana. “Ready?”

She shrugs.

*

(If she’s honest, she doesn’t think _If You’re Not the One_ is Sam’s ideal range, at all. But he somehow makes it so, just for this one performance, and she’s just sort of drifting off to him softly plucking at the guitar throughout the first verse, before remembering that this is where she comes in.

Rachel’s eyes are already getting shiny, and she’s sort of chewing on her lip like the other shoe is going to drop any moment now--like Sam paid off the entire football team to come in and toss her in a dumpster, or something, and this is just a distraction.

Santana tries to catch her eye to like, make it clear that this is _exactly_ what it looks like and nothing more and nothing less; she finally manages on the chorus, and Rachel sort of smiles at her and she sort of smiles back at Rachel, who then looks at Sam again.

It’s just a one second glance, really, but suddenly she wishes _she_ was singing this song to someone. She knows her voice gets better almost immediately.)

*

Kurt is the first person to applaud. “Brava. I don’t think I can say any more than that.”

Rachel is completely in tears at this point, and Sam swings the guitar to his back before getting up and kneeling in front of her. “Like I said, I know we need to talk, but--”

The rest of whatever he’s going to say is swallowed up by her mouth, and Santana unwillingly glances up at Brittany, who looks back at her (just for a second) before turning back to Artie.

“Thank you,” Rachel says, and then repeats it. On the second time, she’s not looking at Sam at all, and there is a really, really strange look on her face. She looks almost pained. Maybe that’s just her trying-not-to-cry face.

“Well,” Mr. Schue says, clapping his hands together. “I think we have our top two, then, but that still leaves us one short.”

Quinn unexpectedly raises her hand and says, “I think we should do something that’s not about romance, but about the club, and how we feel about saying goodbye to it.”

“Like what?” Mr. Schue asks.

Quinn shrugs and looks at Santana, who shrugs and looks at Rachel.

“I know,” Rachel just says, simply, and untangles from Sam to walk over to Barry the piano player before gesturing for Finn to come down from the stands.

*

She stops Kurt after the meeting and says, “I think you should sing with Sam, at Nationals.”

“Why?” Kurt asks, slowly, giving her an appraising look. “I know love songs are not your preference or your forte, but you were completely passable.”

“It’s designed for male falsetto,” Santana says, pursing her lips. “And it will help us to just do something _different_ , you know. Not just girl-boy duets.”

Kurt still looks suspicious, and then asks, “Is this about Brittany?”

“Not even a little,” Santana says, forcefully. “This is about the team.”

“Okay then. I owe Sam a partnership from last year anyway,” Kurt says, touching her on the arm briefly before following after Mercedes.

She’s fine just harmonizing on _You’re My Best Friend_. In fact, it’s probably the only song that anyone suggested that doesn’t make her want to claw her eyes out and pretend the last two years never happened.

*

Even though Quinn and Rachel apparently had ‘a talk’, Santana’s not a fucking moron, and it’s obvious that those waters aren’t ever going to stay still for very long.

Santana fully expects a fist-fight to break out between them during their first week of rehearsing, after they’ve decided on their songs, because Quinn’s face has that ugly, constipated look on it pretty much all the time when Rachel’s yelling at them over the auditorium’s sound system.

(Mr. Schue is _completely_ dropping the ball because Ms. Pillsbury is _finally_ giving off positive vibes or something, and seriously--maybe it is just actually up to them to do it.

There’s some sort of awesome parallel to the Cheerios, where Coach Beiste was around and gave them some advice on limitations and timescales when they asked for it, but other than that, it was their baby as much as glee is Rachel’s.)

Still, she and Quinn were pretty fucking _great_ leaders; Madison has a hell of a lot to live up to next year. Rachel, on the other hand, is mostly just fucking _great_ at driving people to thoughts of self-immolation.

Santana heads up to the sound booth after their third apparently unacceptable take of the Queen song, and mutes the microphone before staring Rachel down.

“I _know_ I’m being difficult, but--”

“No, there’s no but. We’re all trying. We _all_ want this. This isn’t just your fucking dream anymore,” Santana says.

Rachel sinks down in her chair a little more and then, completely unexpectedly, starts crying.

“Jesus, what the hell,” Santana blurts out, before she can stop herself.

“This isn’t about rehearsal,” Rachel manages to get out, between sobs. “I’m not _crazy_.”

“Okay,” Santana says, carefully. She sort of gingerly puts a hand on Rachel’s shoulder, which just sets her off harder.

“I’m a _horrible_ person,” is the next thing she says, which--well, some part of Santana can’t really bring it in her to protest, but whatever.

“Oh, please. Just because you’re annoying the hell out of us--” she says.

Rachel shakes her head. “ _Still_ not talking about rehearsals.” She gulps in a breath, and then wipes at her eyes and says, “I was going to break up with him.”

Santana feels her hand--the one on Rachel’s shoulder--go limp. “Oh.”

“It’s not because--I love him, I do, but--I just _can’t_ see him fitting into my life after high school. I know I’m going to be insanely busy once we get to New York, and one hundred miles might as well be a different planet. He wants--” She forces herself to stop talking and then just presses her lips together so tightly they’re turning white.

“Just because he sang you a song doesn’t mean that you can’t break up with him,” Santana says, after a long moment of watching Rachel just try to calm down.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Rachel says, sniffing hard. “He’s everything Finn has never been; he’s attentive and we have so much fun together, and he makes me feel really good about myself, but … he likes Rachel Berry from Lima, Ohio, who is a very good singer for such a small town and who enjoys spending Saturdays out in the park on a picnic blanket. I don’t think he understands that that Rachel isn’t going to be there anymore, and…”

Santana sighs and squeezes Rachel’s shoulder. “Thinking that you’re going to change in a way he might not like is a really fucking stupid reason to break up with him.”

“It’s not when I’m convinced that--”

“Rach. Seriously. Are you happy with him _now_?” Santana asks, not even because the guy got her three free meals (and of course he threw one in as a bonus) or because she might still feel a little shitty about how she treated him.

“Yes,” Rachel says, in a small voice.

“So how about you just wait and see how it goes?”

Rachel closes her eyes and sighs. “You’re right. I’m overreacting. There’s just not a whole lot in my life that’s going according to plan at the moment, and I’m not coping all that well.”

Santana frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Rachel says, after a long moment, and then reaches up and squeezes Santana’s hand. “I’m just really stressed out about the competition.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be. And if you can’t help yourself, why not pass some responsibility over to Hudson. I’m sure his dumb ass would trip all over itself at the chance to be a role model some more,” Santana says, with a nod down to Finn, who is spinning Artie around on stage.

Rachel straightens and says, with only a small tremor in her voice, “No, thank you. I’d rather die without ever meeting Barbra than trust Finn with our chances at nationals.”

 _Thatta girl,_ Santana thinks, and heads back downstairs.

*

The victory is almost unbearably sweet.

As promised, Mr. Schue gets them a really belated few bottles of sparkling cider, and a surprise bottle of bub as they’re all graduating anyway, but then manages to not be a total creeper and lets them off to celebrate in whatever way they like. They polish off the champagne at the hotel, and then everyone just sort of sits and looks around, waiting for more magic to happen. (As if that humongous trophy isn’t magic enough; even Sam couldn’t swallow that shit.)

Santana takes one look at Quinn and says, “Do you think we can find our way back to that karaoke place?”

Quinn’s having one of those sloppy drunk moments where everything is punctuated with a hug, and so an arm is slung around her back in response. “Of _course_ , I won a medal.”

*

Even though winning nationals is a whole box of awesome on its own, some part of Santana can’t help but feel that the thing she’s _actually_ going to remember about the night is Quinn and Rachel singing _Tipsy_ with Kurt and Artie, because really: what the fuck?

Mercedes is crying with laughter next to her, and she’s only barely holding off tears herself.

(Halfway through the song, Quinn slaps Rachel’s ass, and then gives Sam a really, really amused look in response. Santana spills tequila all over herself cracking up at his clearly-fake glare and then laughs again when Puck just leans over and licks some off her neck until she shoves him off.)

If this is a prequel to what New York is going to be like, she’s pretty sure she’s going to flunk out of college.

*

Sam and Puck have a weird conversation by the door when they’re all getting their coats to head back to the hotel, and Puck finally just says, “Dude, I’m not just being a dick, I seriously haven’t _needed_ any in a long time, okay?”

Shit gets even more uncomfortable when Sam looks at her next and sighs, running a hand through his way-too-long hair, and says, “You wouldn’t happen to have any condoms on you, would you?”

“ _Seriously_?” she asks him.

“Look, I’m sorry, I wasn’t--expecting this, but I’m pretty sure she indicated that... you know,” he says, his ears pinking up. He looks like something cuddly straight off some alien planet on _Star Trek_.

She rolls her eyes at him, but of _course_ she has condoms (so what if she’s not having sex with anyone, let alone guys: there is _no_ excuse for pulling a Fabray) and she fishes around her purse to find one for him.

When she’s got it, she palms it against his chest, hard, and stares at him for a moment. “She’s going to remember this night for the rest of her life. So try not to fucking ruin it by giving her a seriously traumatic sexual experience.”

“Um,” Sam says, reaching for the condom.

“Just-- _be nice,_ and don’t come in your pants,” Santana adds, because wine coolers make her sappy or some shit.

Either way, she needs to get going, because Quinn is being fire-manned out of the bar by Puck and _that_ is probably going to call for some intervention.

*

“Rachel’s cashing in the big V tonight,” she tells Quinn, after manhandling her into some sleep wear.

“Why is _everyone_ in the celibacy club such a whore?” is Quinn’s only response, before flopping onto her stomach with a sigh.

“You’re not,” Santana points out.

“I am, on the inside,” Quinn responds, before tipping over and rolling off the bed altogether, with a laugh. “If God knew half the things that were running through my mind, I’m pretty sure he’d smite me or something.”

Santana can’t even see her, can just hear her giggling on the floor, and just rolls her eyes. “How is it that Rachel Berry is getting laid tonight and I’m babysitting a drunk ex-nun?”

“You know, you should have just sung that song with Brittany,” is Quinn’s incredibly helpful response. “Then you could’ve been the one laying tonight. Lying? Whatever, I mean the sex one, not the chicken one.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Thanks, Quinn. Really helpful.”

Quinn’s head pops up on the other side of the mattress a moment later, and she looks way too serious for how drunk she is. “You remember when I started seeing Finn, junior year?”

“You mean when you got mono from him and were cheating on Sam?”

“It was just one kiss. I was going to stay with Sam,” Quinn says, and then gives a little wry smile. “So that’s two-nil to Rachel.”

“You weren’t in love with him,” Santana reminds her. “At least, you _said_ you weren’t.”

“Nope,” Quinn agrees, before sinking down to the floor again. “But sometimes, I think I could’ve been.”

Santana sighs and feels around for their last bottle of PBR (courtesy of Puck’s smooth talking of some college girls on the way home), and cranks it open. “Well, whatever. He really loves her, so you’re shit out of luck there.”

“I’m shit out of luck basically everywhere,” Quinn says, almost like she’s happy about it.

Seconds later, there’s some light snoring from the floor, and Santana is left to her own devices with a nearly full-bottle of beer.

(She wonders what Veronica McVowel is doing right now.

She _doesn’t_ wonder what Brittany is doing.)

*

Graduation is seriously anti-climactic, even though it’s kind of awesome that her parents are both there and she doesn’t even really need to fake the smile she puts on for the formal pictures.

Rachel’s dads also take a picture with her, and then with her and Rachel, and it’s all really lame but kind of worth it. Santana _thinks_ she spots Judy Fabray somewhere during the procession, but dismisses that thought, because it’s about the last thing that Quinn would even want to know now. Instead, Quinn’s family picture is _her_ family picture, and even though she swore she wouldn’t start crying at graduation--lame, they’ve all known they’re going to graduate for ages now--she has to actually bite down on her lip to stop herself.

Of course, then Mr. and Mrs. Pierce come to congratulate her, and she looks at Brittany and it’s literally just all over. Those snippets of her pre-planned future hit her hard when she sees Britt laughing when her tassel hits her in the nose, and before she can help herself she’s over there, squeezing her into an unbearably tight hug.

“Hey,” Brittany just says.

“Hey,” she says back.

It’s almost enough, just in that moment, and maybe one day she’ll even look at the picture her parents snap of them before they separate again.

*

Kurt organizes the post-graduation pool party that they’re all invited to, and of course it’s themed and involves elaborate Moroccan sun tents or some other shit Santana can’t be bothered to figure out; all she knows is that the Hummel-Hudsons helped them get a few six-packs of beers, and Finn’s mom is actually mixing sangria or something in the kitchen, so this is likely to be the best party they’re going to have this summer _without_ pissing off all their parents.

She and Quinn are lounging on some towels by the pool when Puck and Finn wrestle each other in with a big splash, and of course she _knew_ they were going to get soaked sooner rather than later, but it’s still a pain in the ass to have to reapply all that sunscreen when they’ve only _just_ put it on.

Quinn directs a look at Puck that Santana is pretty sure will make his balls shrivel, and after that everyone more or less behaves civilly.

She’s almost done with Quinn’s back, when Rachel awkwardly files in with Finn’s mother--of course, they _must_ know each other--and waves at them before stripping out of another one of those ridiculous granny summer dresses, and--

“Hey. What are you doing?” Quinn asks, after what feels like _way_ too many seconds.

Santana glances down and realizes she’s sort of digging her hands into Quinn’s back totally unwillingly.

“Sorry, a bug just flew into my mouth,” she says, distractedly.

Quinn snorts and then tips down her sunglasses and looks at Rachel as well. “My God, who knew?”

“Not you, obviously. Those pictures in the girls’ bathroom are way off,” Santana says. It comes out casually enough. She _thinks_.

For maybe the first time in the last year, Santana voluntarily looks over to Brittany and scans up her body instead, and _there’s_ that rush she doesn’t particularly want to be feeling--but at least it’s coming from somewhere expected and somewhere _normal_.

(Is it even _possible_ for Rachel’s legs to be longer than Brittany’s?

She _knew_ she should’ve paid more attention in Trig back in ninth grade.)

“I think Finn might combust,” Quinn says, sounding amused and snapping her out of it.

Seconds later, there’s a loud splash as Madison shoves her 8 feet tall boyfriend into the pool.

“I knew we’d chosen well in her,” Santana says, with a smile. She wipes off her hands on the towel, and then hops up onto her legs. “Be right back, gonna make a juice run.”

She heads over to where Finn’s mom is putting out some plastic cups and a pitcher, and that takes her closer to Rachel, who -- okay, fine, is looking _hot_ , and maybe she looks a second time, because it’s just _weird_ that Rachel’s looking hot. Anyway, before _looking_ can accidentally turn into _staring_ , Rachel thankfully just laughs at something Sam says and dives into the water.

Sam joins her a moment later, and when she glances over to them next, there’s something about the look on both their faces that pretty much confirms that Rachel Berry’s first time was not a total fucking disaster.

Maybe finally having sex turned Rachel from a weirdly Amish dwarf into--well, _that_.

 _Whatever,_ Santana thinks, and then gulps down nearly an entire glass of sangria in one go, even as Finn’s mom looks at her a little disapprovingly.

*

Later that night, everyone’s sort of huddled together around a small artificial fire thing that Kurt has rustled up.

“The first person to start singing _Kumbaya_ is going to eat my fist,” Santana promises; it would be more convincing if she wasn’t so wasted and basically dependent on Quinn to hold her upright.

“Aw, come on you guys, it’s a classic,” Rachel says, with a half-hearted pout.

Santana can _feel_ Quinn roll her eyes and say, “How about we just not sing. It’s all we ever do together, so--why don’t we just do something different, for once.”

“Truth or dare,” Brittany says. “Because we can’t spin a bottle in fire.”

Santana almost protests out of sheer laziness. She can cop out of answering whatever she likes, though, and it’s not like anyone _else_ is really capable of moving, either.

Quinn’s arm slings around her shoulder. “Why not.”

“Actually,” Puck says, running his fingers through the flames in front of them. “I vote _I Never_. I don’t want to get up and do shit on dares.”

“It _is_ Santana’s favorite,” Brittany says, directing her a fond look from across the fire. Santana knows she’s sort of dumbly smiling back, but whatever. None of them will even _remember_ this tomorrow.

“All right, I have a good one, so I’ll go first,” Finn says, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve never jerked off in the choir room.”

There is a _rousing_ chorus of disgust until Puck finally says, “Fuck you, dude” and takes a sip.

“God, _where?_ ” Tina asks, looking horrified.

“Relax, Wednesday Addams. It’s not like any of us are ever going to be sitting there again,” Puck says, before tipping his shot glass at Sam. “You’re up.”

“I’ve never had sex in New York,” Sam says, after a moment.

Rachel glares at him so hard that he laughs and shifts away from her, but then gamely drinks; as do Puck, Lauren ( _ew_ , Santana thinks), Artie and Brittany.

God, when did she become so lame that she’s stuck with Tina and Mercedes and _Virgin Mary_ in these games?

Rachel wipes her mouth after the shot and then says, “I’ve never been attracted to anyone of the same sex.”

Kurt says, “How gracious of you, Rachel, I was getting thirsty” before tipping his glass against Blaine’s; they pound back their shots about as elegantly as shots can be pounded back.

Santana rolls her eyes and also tips back her shot glass, but not before noticing that other than the _obvious_ suspects, Rachel seems to be refilling her own glass as well.

“Wait--seriously?” Puck says, noticing it at the same time.

“This isn’t truth or dare, Noah,” Rachel tells him, primly, and then drinks.

“You’re such a tease. Give a fellow Jew a break,” Puck calls back, and then takes a drink.

Everyone stares at him.

“Oh, whatever, dudes. I’m just drinking because I’m _drinking_ ,” he protests.

Santana laughs at the idea of Puck with another guy and then catches Rachel’s eye again. She blinks slowly, twice, until Rachel smiles at her a little and nudges Mike Chang next to her.

My God, she is _really_ drunk.

“I’ve.... never had a multiple orgasm,” Mike Chang says.

Tina’s hair whips around so fast that Artie gets slapped with some of it. Everyone just stares at both of them for a moment, while Tina’s face just keeps getting paler and paler. Mike’s starting to look a little scared, but whatever. Go Mike fucking Chang, Santana thinks, and decides to cut him a break.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but Britt and I should _definitely_ be drinking.”

She carefully looks at Artie when she’s taken her shot, who honestly looks more interested than offended by this little factoid, and so she only feels a little guilty when Quinn stares at her from over her head and says, “You are going to _regret_ this tomorrow.”

“Whatever. I’ve redefined alcohol poisoning playing this game; I’m not about to pussy out now,” Santana says, with a shrug.

“I’ve never had a threesome,” is Tina’s choice.

Santana laughs and just holds out her glass towards Puck, who toasts with her before drinking.

*

She wakes up the next morning in a puddle of her own drool, halfway on top of Quinn.

“Shit,” she mumbles, but really, this is almost a best-case scenario; at least she doesn’t have to wrack her brain trying to figure out if something that shouldn’t have _did_ happen last night.

Not that she can remember more than just a few flashes here and there. (Staring at Rachel’s legs, mostly. A _lot_ of staring at Rachel’s legs. _God_.)

 _I Never_ is usually a better friend to her than this.

*

Rachel’s dad picks them up later that day, and Santana almost throws up three times on the car ride back, even though their Volvo has “excellent suspension” (thanks, Rachel) and she’s pretty sure Black Berry isn’t going more than ten miles an hour most of the time.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks her and Quinn, when they’re in her driveway. Rachel looks green in the face but is also dead asleep in the front seat, and Santana just nods before holding out a hand to pull Quinn out of the car. “Santana, hang on a minute,” he adds, when she’s closing the back door.

Quinn walks over to the house and starts fumbling for the front door keys, but Santana leans against the side of the car and winces when the window rolls down.

“I know this is Lima, and the worst thing that could happen to you here is probably waking up in a field of cows the next morning with no recollection of how you got there...”

She smiles, because, hey, _been there done that_.

“... but promise me you will be more careful in New York.”

“I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to Rachel,” she says, holding a hand up to cover her eyes; man, there is a lot of sun out. Or maybe her eyes just really hurt.

“Or yourself,” he says, and then gives her a considering look. “I know it’s not really my place, but I’ll say it anyway. Ohio isn’t the best place to be when you’re... questioning, and New York is going to be like a candy store with unlimited amounts of choices for you. Just--try to make good ones, okay?”

She just nods when she can’t really think of anything else to say, and then Black Berry smiles at her and rolls the window up again.

She watches the car go, and wonders if she should’ve just told him that she’s pretty sure she’s _never_ going to get drunk around Rachel again.

(Not until after she’s had a _lot_ of sex, anyway, because really, Rachel’s fucking too-long legs are probably the _last_ thing she ever wants to be thinking about.)

*

Stopping isn’t easy, though. Not when her usual trick to not _thinking_ about things is _doing_ other things. (See also: Puck, everytime Brittany got too close.)

The problem is, this is still Lima, and there isn’t much of anything for her to _do_ , these days.

*

She calls Puck, in a moment of desperation, when even a hangover-curing milkshake and another night’s sleep don’t take off the edge at _all_.

“This thing with you and Quinn-is it exclusive?”

He’s silent for a long moment. “I thought you were gay now.”

“I’m _many_ things, okay.”

“Dude... she’s your best friend,” Puck says, sounding really uncomfortable.

“Yeah, well, that didn’t stop her from fucking you when you were _my_ boyfriend.”

She doesn’t mean it, not at all, and hangs up before he can even respond to her.

*

In the end, the fix turns out to be exactly what it has been for the past year and a half: pathetic and unwanted, but incredibly effective.

(And no, she _doesn’t_ give in often, which is part of why she’s so incredibly fucking frustrated all the time, and probably why she’s now spent 24 hours thinking about Rachel fucking Berry’s legs, full stop.

She doesn’t want _this_ to be what works for her; she doesn’t want this to work for her at all.

But...)

She slips her fingers into her panties, squeezes her eyes shut, and lets herself think about Brittany.

*

When she wakes up the next morning, it’s done. No more thinking about Kurt’s lame ass pool party, and instead she’s just where she has been for ages now: back to stupidly wishing that she’d sung a fucking duet with her best friend two and a half years ago.

(The sting of regret is so familiar that some part of Santana actually thinks it will hurt her more when it finally leaves, one day.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gracias to B as always for the beta and for giving me some of the best (worst) ideas for this story; couldn't do it without you as a sounding board, babe. Thanks also to the rest of you for sticking with this little universe. More to follow, obviously.

5.

So.

Every day New York is getting closer, and every day everyone else is moving further away.

There is this incredible weight settling on Santana as the summer moves on, quicker than it ever has in boring-ass podunk Lima before. She wishes she’d taken her parents up on that graduation trip to somewhere (the Caribbean? Hawaii?) but they weren’t going to be able comp for Quinn to come with her and this is _it_. This is the last few months she’s ever going to spend _living_ in Lima.

Maybe she’ll be back in November, for Thanksgiving, and maybe she’ll be back for Christmas, and maybe she’ll even be back all of next summer, but it will never feel the same. Lima will be a pit stop in the grand scheme of things, and all the faces that she’s seen every day for her entire life are going to blur as time goes on.

(She wakes up one morning not having a clue where Tina and Mike are even going to college and it makes her feel so shitty that she punishes herself on her three mile past the Pierce sprinkler and all the way home again. She’s breathing so heavy that she almost falls over when the door unlocks again, and then Quinn is on the sofa, glancing up from whatever lame-ass Jane Austin novel she’s pretending not to like now, and her vision blurs over with pain and tears.)

She doesn’t know how to reconcile wanting to get the fuck out _so badly_ with this feeling that her life is also basically ending, and nobody really seems to know how to help.

They’re all in the same little tugboat now, floating out to sea.

*

She spends the summer in threes. (A safe number, all things considered.)

*

She and Kurt and Blaine go shopping together; just an ad hoc prowl through the Target by Huber Heights (because she can really do without another fucking trip to Columbus).

Kurt and Blaine argue about fabric choices for the decorative wall that Kurt insists his dorm room will not be complete without, and Blaine sort of rolls his eyes and says, “Honey, I don’t want to be looking at chintz when we’re... you know.”

Kurt blushes and chastises him simultaneously, and Santana heads off into a different aisle before she gags. She wanders over to the bedding section almost automatically, because the beds she and Rachel are getting from Ikea to fit in the new apartment are some weird fucking European size and she needs new bedding.

(That’s not the only reason. It’s a clean sheet, so she needs clean sheets. Literally.)

Her fingers run past this ridiculously sunny yellow that would make her fucking break out in a cold sweat if she woke up in it every night, and she automatically veers towards the grays, but then sees a sort of dark-ish bruised pink that reminds her of her prom dress, and her hand grabs it almost without permission.

When she finds the boys again, they’re making out by the shower curtains, and whatever. She’s glad they’re happy. She’s glad they’re _staying_ together, even though that’s more an accident than a plan.

(The look on Kurt’s face when she suggested he was going to Providence to be near Blaine was memorable, to say the least, and made her feel a little pathetic about her own reluctance to go anywhere without Quinn. Or Brittany. Or Rachel, now.

She’s never really realized that she’s incapable of being alone, but then she thinks about telling her twelve year old self that one day, she will be talking about wall colors and cutlery drawers with that fucking ankle-biting mouth-breather Rachel Berry, and...

Whatever. She’s handling being alone in all the big ways just fine.)

“Hey--come here,” Blaine says, when she realizes she’s dumbly staring at them by the cart they’ve loaded with small trinkets they can get now; Kurt pulls her into a hug, and Blaine shoots a picture of them together when she’s still pretty sure she’s scowling and trying to bat his hands away.

“There. That’ll be great for the wall,” he says, showing it to them a moment later. Santana looks between the two of them, and Kurt nods towards the cart, where there’s an elaborate picture hanging contraption of some kind.

“I look _awful_ ,” she complains, grabbing for Blaine’s iPhone. “Look at my fucking face, I look like Mr. Schue that day when you told him that vests are going out of fashion.”

Kurt pulls her back with a laugh and then gives her a real hug, just for a moment. “You look every bit as bitchy and difficult as you are, which is _fine_ , so just _let_ me have my picture, and talk to me about those Playboy Bunny sheets you’re trying to hide behind your back.”

“I like them. They go well with your lipstick,” Blaine says, with a wink, before taking another picture of her - scowling even more. “There.”

She chases both of them halfway down the store before the security people catch them and nearly throw them out, but when Blaine forwards the pictures to her, she doesn’t delete them.

(New York might have a fuckton of gays compared to Lima, but she doesn’t think she’s ever going to find any that compare to Kurt and Blaine.)

*

Sam and Rachel talk her into going to Color Me Mine with minimal effort.

“It’ll be _great_ ,” Rachel says. “We can make our own mugs, so we always know that if we are accidentally consuming any germs, they will at least be our own. I’ve tried to find out as much as I can about the water quality in Brooklyn, but--”

“Oh, my God,” Santana just says, and then turns to Sam, very deliberately. “I will _come_ , but you will never tell anyone.”

The somewhat smug look on Rachel’s face on the drive over should probably tell her that Rachel is now using “being annoying” to play her like a fucking harp, but whatever.

(Rachel and Sam softly sing along with the radio in the front, and she closes her eyes and bites down on any bitchy things to say about how it would’ve been _nice_ if Rachel had found the fucking volume control about four years earlier.)

She has the artistic impulses of four year old, and so after a few minutes of trying to paint a straight line, she gives up and just sticks her thumb in the paint and goes to town on the mug. It looks like something Brittany would vomit by the time she’s done.

“Nice. Is that an art deco rainbow?” Sam asks, mildly. “Subtle. Meaningful, even.”

She almost pelts the mug at him, but then he turns his own artwork around, and he’s drawn the Superman logo (that fucking dork) and slowly pushes the mug towards her.

It’s _not_ cool. It is, however, well-done, and she’s a little fucking embarrassed about the idea of anyone else (like--some girl?) finding that Crayola-colored disaster she’s created in their kitchen, so she takes it, grudgingly.

Rachel paints an perfect gold star on hers, and then Sam--who must fucking come here once a week or something, the way he’s blazing through their purchases--turns another mug around and, oh fucking _great_ , it’s also a gold star, except it’s got six points on it, because they are _exactly_ that lame.

“I love it,” Rachel says, and then leans over the table, her shirt hanging in a fuck load of paint on the way over, and adds a really soft and heartfelt, “I love you.”

Santana flicks paint at both of them because they’re being fucking disgusting, making out in a _children’s pottery place_ or whatever, and ten minutes later they’re standing outside with a Superman mug and two gold star mugs.

“I can’t believe you got me kicked out of Color Me Mine,” Sam mumbles at her, actually looking annoyed.

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re a whole ten years too old to enjoy going to that place,” Santana says, trying not to laugh at the look on his face.

“Both of you--play nice,” Rachel says, admiring her own painted star from a few more angles, before finally putting the mug back in the bag.

Santana knows it’s her trademark and everything, but _seriously_. Bitch is _obsessed_ with those things.

“This _is_ nice,” Sam says, at the same time that Santana says, “Did she give you a gold star when you finally fucked her her?”

Rachel’s mouth falls open and Sam just starts laughing.

“ _Santana_!”

“What? If you didn’t give him one, there must’ve been something … lacking.”

Sam grins and lifts the side of his shirt for a moment.

Santana will _never_ know where the fuck Rachel even found temporary gold star tattoos, but that shit is a little impressive if not totally insane.

“Babe, it’s fine. We’re like Cyclops and Wolverine. We’re never going to get along or anything, but we know we’re on the same team,” Sam says, slinging an arm around Rachel’s back.

“First of all, I’m _not_ Cyclops, because that guy is a pussy,” Santana argues. (Whatever, she’s seen the movies.) “And second of all, I want to be that hot ass blue chick who’s constantly naked and like, killing people.”

“She dies in the last movie,” Sam points out.

“ _You’ll_ die in the last movie if you don’t shut up.”

It’s a totally lame day, with two totally lame people, and Santana drags Quinn out for dinner as soon as she gets home and complains about them for two solid hours.

(She never thought she’d see the day where she’d get Quinn Fabray to voluntarily go to KFC for a bucket, but now that they’re not cheerleaders anymore--or well, _she_ isn’t, and Quinn has the summer off--they’ve basically been working their way around Lima’s fast food counters at leopard speed. It’s fucking _great_ , and she knows she’ll drop the pounds again once she gets to New York, if only because she’ll have to walk up like three flights every day just to get home.)

“So you had fun?” Quinn asks, batting at her lips with a napkin.

“... _what_?”

Nobody fucking understands her anymore.

*

Quinn and Puck take her on a road trip to some small, deserted lake they discovered together.

(She doesn’t ask if they’re actually dating now, because they both get real fucking hedgy whenever that subject is raised; and maybe Quinn’s taking a leaf from her, actually, just living in the moment.

Either way, they’re together a lot these days, but she never really feels like an add-on when she’s around them, so it’s fine. Pretty fucking great, actually--her two remaining best friends in the same place. Some would call her lucky.)

Puck brings Super Soakers that he claims to have ‘borrowed’ from some kid in the neighborhood, and Quinn rolls her eyes at him about twenty million times before finally dislodging that stick up her ass and having some fun with them.

The sun sets on them unexpectedly, and Puck throws them both blankets. They wrap into them and he passes around some Coors that he got Mrs. Schuester to buy for him at the end of his Sheets & Things shift.

“That woman is disturbed. Promise me you’ll keep a distance,” Quinn mumbles, after a long pull, and then gives Puck a very serious look.

“Baby, I may have been a MILF magnet for most of last year, but--come on,” he says, in response.

It doesn’t seem like _that’s_ what Quinn is worried about, but moments later they start kissing, and of course Puck has no fucking decency about doing this in front of her at all. She shoves at his shoulder, and he and Quinn tumble over together, and then she takes a picture of them, still laughing and halfway on top of each other.

“Beth’s lucky if she looks like either of you,” she says, before she can think to not say anything so terribly fucking gay, and then they obviously stop joking around and after a moment, Quinn pulls on her blanket to get her to set back down.

They lie there for hours, just sort of shooting the shit, and look at stars up ahead.

“New York is like this all the time,” Puck says. “Seriously, lights fucking _everywhere_. Parties that never stop, and _so_ many chicks.”

Quinn swats at him, half-heartedly. “You’re such a pig.”

“I meant for _her_ ,” Puck corrects, sounding a little annoyed, before leaning up on his elbows and directing a worried look at Santana. “When’s the last time you got any?”

Santana doesn’t bother answering him; just flips him off and closes her eyes.

“Either way, college girls,” he says after a moment, laying back again and folding his hands under his head. “I hear they’ll try anything. I mean, even _Rachel’s_ like, ten year plan or whatever includes an experimental phase.”

Quinn laughs. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You know, she’s getting married when she’s 25 or whatever; she fucking has it all written out. Showed it to me once when I was trying to get in her pants. Or well, not really, but it was just lying on her desk and shit and she was freaking out about doing it with me because of Finn or some shit, I don’t even know.”

Quinn hits him again, for good measure. “Stop talking about getting it on with Rachel.”

“Please. She’s like my little sister,” Puck says, finishing off the last bottle of beer and tossing it towards the truck. He seems to sober a bit at that thought, and then looks towards Santana again. “So you better take care of her, bitch.”

“I’ve already had this talk with her dads, for what it’s worth, so fuck off,” Santana says without looking back at him.

“Are you--” Quinn starts to ask, and then shakes her head and says nothing else; just curls up towards Puck a little bit more.

So much for that whole fucking ‘not feeling like a third’ thing.

“I’m fucking tired,” she says, and it’s not even really a lie. She heads back to his truck and falls asleep on the front seat while looking at them softly talking while huddled in a blanket together.

*

Mercedes and Quinn pick her up for a girls’ day out.

They go to a spa, get massages and facials, and then spend the rest of the day lounging around in mud baths.

“I’m going to miss Ohio,” Mercedes says, when Santana thinks she might actually fall asleep -- bad idea, she’d probably wake up with a nose full of mud. “I mean, I know that’s twelve different degrees of insane, because Ohio _blows_ , and I’m sure California will be great, but still. You know?”

Quinn obviously has nothing to say to this at all, and stays so perfectly still that it’s uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I do, I guess,” Santana says, and it’s weird--only after she’s said the words does she realize she sort of means them.

*

Asian parties aren’t like normal parties, and she’s never been more happy to see Tina as when Mike’s great aunt is telling her to marry either a doctor or a lawyer, because financial stability is very important.

(She can’t help but think back to two years ago, when she thought marrying an NFL player would be the solution to all of her fucking problems.

“I’m going to be a lawyer,” she finally tells one of the many Mrs. Changs, who smiles fondly at her and says, “Good. So then you should marry a doctor.”)

“I’m sorry; I know it’s selfish to make all of you come here, but they are driving us _crazy_. They want us to get married before we go to college so we don’t accidentally have pre-marital sex when we’re not being supervised anymore,” Tina whispers in her ear.

“Um, little late for that,” Santana points out, dodging a glass of some fucking drink that probably contains panda hair that someone is thrusting out towards her.

“Yeah, _I know_ , but shhh. It’s just another month and then we’ll be in Oregon, and nobody will care about any of this anymore.” Tina drags her outside, where Puck and Quinn are laughing about something and Sam is chasing Rachel around the yard with one of those fucking disgusto-looking chicken feet appetizers. “I mean. I probably _will_ marry Mike, you know, but not _now_.”

Santana blinks at Tina twice and says, “Seriously. You’re _that_ sure, already?”

“Well, yeah. Sometimes when you know, you just know,” Tina says, with an enviable amount of certainty. She directs a look at Mike that Santana recognizes, and even though Brittany’s not even _here_ , she still looks for her.

“You guys are fucking lucky,” she says.

Ten minutes later, the entire family insists on watching Tina’s baby videos. Luck is kind of a relative thing, it turns out.

*

“I want Santana,” Puck says, as soon as she shows up.

“Dude, you’re picking a girl over me?” Finn asks, before looking at Santana and adding a hasty, “No offense.”

“Have you _met_ Lopez? She’s a fucking killer,” Puck says, swinging a smug arm around her shoulder. “Last time we played, she fucking shot Brittany in the face so hard that she fell out of a tree. And like, that was ages ago, when those two were still all... you know.”

Mike flinches, visibly. Blaine just raises his eyebrows and then gives Santana this sort of encouraging older brother grin.

Sam clears his throat. “Not to sound all intimidated, but are there any sort of mercy rules to this game?”

“Yeah,” Puck says, grinning. “You can bow out once there’s a paint ball gun to your nads. But only if you say--”

“--Team Stud is King,” Santana finishes for him.

(Rachel, Quinn, Tina, Mercedes and Kurt are having iced tea back at the club house. They’re sort of missing the point of all of this, even though Quinn grudgingly applied some black camo to her face.

Rachel just went, “You look _so_ cute”, which, _what_? She’s wearing fatigues and she’s got a hefty ass gun. Bitches.)

Sam is starting to look a little worried. “ _How_ many times have you guys played together?”

“Shit,” Puck says, and looks down at Santana. “We were what, twelve, the first time?”

“Yeah, before I started minding my nails, anyway,” she says, with a glance down at them.

“Is it even _legal_ for twelve year olds to play paint ball?” Blaine asks, scratching his head.

“We made the guns ourselves and played in my back yard,” Santana shrugs. “Whatever.”

Finn rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Dude, it’s okay. Just remember that for once, it’s _okay_ to like, be all violent with a girl. I made that mistake my first few times out and couldn’t walk for like three days while she annihilated me.”

“You’re terrifying,” Sam tells Santana, when they’re all heading out to hide and take up their first positions.

She smiles and winks at him. “Consider this pay back for dragging me to Color Me Gay.”

When they get back, and she’s taken a really, really fucking long shower, Quinn is pocketing a wad of cash and then presses a kiss to her cheek.

“I’m glad you’re so predictably homicidal,” she says. “Dinner’s on me.”

Santana glares at everyone else. “Did you bitches _really_ bet against me and Puck?”

“Boyfriend loyalty,” Rachel says, shoving another twenty towards Quinn with a sigh, before reaching towards Sam and gently rubbing at the bruise on his cheek. “She really got you good.”

“Yeah, she really got _everyone_ good,” Kurt agrees, rolling his eyes at Blaine. “So much for you bucking the stereotype, Mr. Sports Fan.”

“I never said I was _good_ at sports. I sing in an all-boy’s choir!” Blaine protests.

Santana raises her eyebrows at Mercedes, who just shrugs. “Finn’s built like _Hercules_. Who knew all that padding wouldn’t get him anywhere.”

“I don’t think I can sit,” Mike says, feebly, wincing when Tina gives him a small hug.

“You all just put the feminist movement back like thirty years,” Santana points out, with a glare.

“Yeah. Thank you all for having so little faith,” Quinn says, with a sweet little smile.

(The best part it’s Puck’s somewhat pathetic, “But you were betting on _me_ , right babe?” when they’re heading back home. Santana can’t quite contain her snicker at Quinn’s very placating, “Of course, honey.”)

*

Brittany asks. Twice.

They borrow Artie’s mom’s van and Santana drives, just because that way she has something to do that isn’t a) cry or b) gag. Artie is being fucking considerate about all of it, though--there’s no touching, which isn’t exactly the easiest thing to fucking accomplish with Brittany “Lemur” Pierce--so really, it’s just the idea of them. Together. _Still_.

Britt always plays punch buggy on longer car drives, and so Santana ends up backing into a parking space with a sore shoulder and so much unwanted anger that she almost knocks into the Jag parked behind them.

“You could’ve used a disabled spot,” Artie reminds her.

“ _I_ don’t need one,” she reminds him.

This afternoon is going to be a fucking disaster; she knows it, he knows it, and yet here they are, playing house because it’s the only thing Brittany has asked either of them to do this entire summer.

Artie pays for all the tickets, which is just fucking swell, and then she’s stuck with her hands in her pockets, wandering next to her … she doesn’t even know what to call Brittany anymore, other than her biggest regret. It’s so fucking stupid.

Next thing, Brittany sees the sign for the dolphins, and off they go, laughing and skip-wheeling (she skips, he wheels, Mercedes coined the term) further into the aquarium. Santana follows grudgingly, and only moves next to them when Britt turns around with one of those questioning, not-getting-it looks.

“I’ve changed my mind about dolphins. They’re not gay sharks,” she says, when Santana joins them.

“Okay,” Santana says, after a long moment.

“You know, sometimes I just say things,” Brittany says, after a long moment.

Artie wheels his chair a little bit closer, giving them a half-assed illusion of privacy (in the middle of the state’s largest aquarium, so whatever), and Brittany’s hand brushes against hers.

“I don’t think you ever really got that,” Britt adds, when Santana stays silent.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t really get. You are _not_ one of them,” she finally says, looking straight at Brittany for a change, and the way Britt’s smile falters and her breath catches--well, _fuck_ her. Santana’s not the one who started this conversation.

“Will you ever not be mad at me?” Brittany finally asks, in a small voice. “Because--I’ve let you be mad at me for so long now, and now there’s only two weeks left here, and I don’t know what else I can do. And I’m going to have to start calling Quinn to ask how you’re doing, and you’re going to be living with Rachel, and she’s going to be the one watching Sweet Valley High and stuff with you now.”

“Britt--” Santana starts to say.

“I know things are different now,” Brittany says, haltingly. “But I really wish they could be different _again_ , so that you don’t hate Artie--”

“I don’t _hate_ Artie,” Santana says, forcefully. She doesn’t add what comes after that: _I hate you for being with him, except I could never hate you, so mostly I just hate everything else._

Something about Brittany’s face says that she sort of gets it, anyway.

“I want to go see the sharks, and Artie won’t admit it, but he’s a little afraid of them because he can’t swim and he has Jaws nightmares. So--will you come with me?” Brittany asks, and it _sounds_ like Brittany, and they’re Brittany’s words, but nothing about this is what she’s expecting anymore.

“No,” Santana says, a little louder than she means to, before pulling her hand away. “You should go with him, and hold his fucking hand or whatever it takes for him to not be such a pussy. That’s your--that’s what you should do.”

Artie glances at them both over his shoulder, and there is the strangest look on his face, like maybe Santana’s underestimated him all this time, and like maybe he knows so much more than she’s ever given him credit for.

“You should fucking take care of each other,” she says, with so much finality that sinks in her chest like a rock. “I’m going to go look at the manatees.”

She wanders for a while, and then sits on a bench and stares at the manatees until she finally thinks that she can face them again.

Artie rolls up next to her unexpectedly and says, “She’s never stopped missing you, you know.”

The urge to hit him is overwhelming, but she’s too tired to actually do anything about it. “Why are you fucking telling me that?”

Artie sighs and looks at the manatees flitting around each other for a long moment. “Because she’s been telling me for two years now.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Santana says, because it’s true.

“Don’t I?” Artie asks, pointedly. “You know how she is with secrets. Even the big ones.”

Santana looks at him, hard, for just a moment. “And you’re _okay_ with--”

“No,” he says, fast, and there’s something about the set to his jaw that tells Santana that he might actually be close to hitting _her_. “I was furious. And I’m _still_ angry. At both of you.”

She feels her fingers start to itch. “Oh, _what ever_. I didn’t force her to fuck me--not the first time, and not any of the other times she two-timed you, either.”

She can’t even pretend that it doesn’t feel _good_ to tell him. Shit, some part of her wishes she’d rubbed his face in it a lot sooner.

“Maybe you didn’t make her,” he agrees, tightly, before shooting her a look so dark that she actually flinches away from it. “But you sure did a good job of telling her that it wasn’t cheating. Do you _really_ think she would’ve done if it you hadn’t told her it was okay?”

Santana refuses to answer him.

(It’s not like she doesn’t _know_ it was fucked up to lie to Brittany about what them sleeping together meant at the time. But the alternative, _actually_ not having Brittany...

It wasn’t a choice, then. (It’s barely a choice now.))

“I didn’t come here to talk about that, anyway,” Artie adds, more quietly and less angry. “I just wanted to say that you should think about getting over yourself, before you don’t even have a chance to be her friend anymore.”

It hurts. A lot more because on some level, she knows he’s right.

“I can’t be here anymore,” she tells him, and he sighs but doesn’t make any sort of move to stop her. (Not that he even _could_. Fucking hell.)

She leaves the aquarium, almost at a run. Then, she jogs over to the edge of the parking lot and dodges between the cars until she’s sure she’s alone.

She kicks at the back of some asshole’s Hummer, and cries.

(Ten minutes later, she speed-dials Quinn.)

*

She avoids couples for the rest of the summer.

Everyone makes her want to fucking _hit_ things, after that day. Kurt and Rachel look slightly afraid to be spending time with her, but they’re the only people she can handle being in a room with, because the odds of them making out are only slightly worse than those of the world ending tomorrow.

Rachel’s spread pictures of their soon-to-be apartment all over her bed, and she and Kurt are leaning over them and murmuring at each other about colors and things; Santana’s just busy with a ruler, trying to map out dimensions for all of their shit, and of _course_ there’s room for Rachel’s elliptical, even though Rachel’s _also_ insisting on a desk and at least a keyboard for songwriting or whatever.

“We’re fine,” she says, when they’re both looking at her expectantly after she’s scribbled down the last few measurements. “Which I also told you last month. And the month before that.”

“It doesn’t hurt to triple-check,” Rachel says.

“I’m going to start looking into soundproofing your room,” Santana says, and slips off the bed to go and start up Rachel’s laptop; while it’s booting, she heads downstairs to get some water after that, because Kurt and Rachel look like they’re dying to talk about her, and she’s too weary to even yell at them about it.

(Her aquarium meltdown became public knowledge much quicker than she liked, but of course ‘public’ now only involves twelve people who all pity her to varying degrees.)

Black Berry’s reading a newspaper in the kitchen when she comes downstairs, and he gestures for her to sit down. She pours a glass of water and sits down across from him, already wary.

“You okay?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” she says, staring at the paper. Apparently the economy is recovering, or something. (She wonders if she’s going to have to start reading the Times when she’s at Barnard.)

“Santana... there _will_ be other girls, you know,” he says, gently. “I know it feels like right now, you will never love anyone the way you love... what’s her name?”

“Brittany,” Santana mumbles.

He folds up the paper a moment later and locks his hands together decidedly. “Before I met Hiram, back in the dark ages, obviously, there was this boy named Ben. He was wonderful, you know. Tall, black, _Christian_. My parents, after their initial discomfort with the fact that Ben was a ‘he’, loved him. They plainly adored him. And we were together for two years when Ben let me know that he was joining the Peace Corps and there was nothing I could do to stop him. He moved to Kazakhstan about a month after he told me, and I ate so much ice cream that I’m still surprised I didn’t end up a diabetic.”

She smiles unwillingly and then feels some more tired tears well up. “That’s really gay.”

“My only point is, two years later I met this crazy annoying short guy who just wouldn’t stop telling me that Jesus was a figment of my imagination and that nobody would ever be a better performer than Audrey Hepburn, and … well. Here we are,” Black Berry says, spreading his arms out and gesturing at the rest of the kitchen.

“I get what you’re saying, okay,” Santana says, after a moment, with a sigh. “I just--whatever. Maybe in New York....”

“I’d be very surprised if Rachel didn’t already have a twelve step plan to getting you a new girlfriend once you’re all settled in,” Black Berry says, casually, like that’s fucking _normal_.

Santana doesn’t quite manage to not cringe. “Yeah. That sounds... _awesome_.”

Black Berry laughs and reaches for his paper again. “She’ll be _very_ thorough in her selections. You could do worse.”

“Please. Her criteria are going to be like, _how many Streisand musicals have you seen? Do you have dental insurance? Can you do the multiplication tables backwards in your head?_ ” Santana makes a face. “No offense, but she’s _crazy_.”

“Well, good thing her roommate is such a shining example of sanity,” Black Berry says mildly, before flipping back to the sports pages.

She hates him.

(She’s going to miss him ribbing her so bad, it’s insane.)

*

When she gets back upstairs, Kurt and Rachel meerkat at her so obviously that she just rolls her eyes and says, “If you have something to ask me about what fucking happened at the aquarium the other day, why don’t you just _ask_ me?”

“Oh,” Rachel says.

“Yeah, we didn’t realize that actually talking to you was an option,” Kurt adds.

“Well, I didn’t say I was going to fucking _answer_ them, but at least that’ll stop you two from gawking at me like two Cabbage Patch kids on coke.”

Kurt and Rachel exchange a look, and then Rachel takes a deep breath. “Are you okay?”

Seriously-- _that’s_ their fucking question? She knows she’s gaping at them a little, but come _on_.

“Yeah. I mean, no. I will be,” she says, when they really don’t look like they want to ask anything else.

Kurt smiles after a moment and says, “So is this a good time to bring up how wrong that S&M dungeon color scheme you picked out for your bedroom is? Or are you too fragile to handle the truth right now?”

She hates _everyone_.

*

The last eleven days pass in a blur.

She’s packing, and Quinn’s helping her, and then she’s crying on the sofa with her mother at the season finale for _Real Housewives: Atlanta_ (which is still seriously the best one), and then her dad gives her a credit card with a very awkward hug, and next thing she knows, it’s her last fucking night in Lima.

Quinn is a mess. Santana knows on some level that Quinn is trying to _not_ be a mess, but nearly everyone else has already left and Quinn keeps being the one that’s left behind. It’s making her future stand out starkly, and even though Puck’s been admittedly better about cheering Quinn up than anyone thought he was going to be--his normal solution to girls being sad is “take off your pants and let me make you feel better”--there’s just a limit to how many things he can fix.

“I don’t want to talk,” Quinn says, even before she can open her mouth; they’re on Santana’s bed together (another thing that’s staying behind) and watching _My Super Sweet Sixteen_ , eating a bowl of popcorn and doing basically the same thing they’ve been doing for the past year and a half.

“Okay,” Santana says, and when Quinn shifts and curls up on her shoulder a moment later, it’s basically the only part of the last two weeks that’s felt even a little bit like it’s right.

She drifts off at the random images of balloon animals and ice sculptures, which has to be close to the tackiest fucking decor ever, and only wakes up when Quinn says, softly, “If you have anything at all left to say to her, you need to do it _now_.”

Quinn squeezes her waist just once and then actually falls asleep.

Santana lies awake for most of the night before finally untangling, and then she almost trips over herself trying to get her shoes on before running (1.5 miles, always 1.5 miles) straight to Brittany’s house.

*

The third rock she throws hits target, and Brittany opens the window a moment later, looking completely exhausted and confused and then--just for a few seconds--incredibly happy.

She swings out of her window and clambers down the trellis a second later, and then they’re stupidly standing in Brittany’s front yard, in still half-wet grass from when the sprinklers came on earlier.

“I’m so mad at you,” Brittany says, sounding too sleepy to really mean it. “You were horrible all day long, and then you just left. I can’t believe you just left.”

“I know. It was fucking stupid,” Santana says, and there’s this clenching in her heart that she just can’t ignore any longer. “ _Everything’s_ been fucking stupid, these past two years.”

“Yeah, well, it takes two people for two people to be stupid,” Britt says, a little sharply. She’s awake now and shivering (which, duh, she’s just wearing a t-shirt and her underwear and the grass is cold and wet) and Santana almost automatically starts taking off her jacket to give to her.

Every other time she’s had any urge to do anything like this, for almost a year now, she’s clamped down on it; but this is the last time, and there’s no way that things between them can get even worse, so she abruptly shrugs out of her jacket and drapes it around Brittany’s shoulders.

“Thanks,” Brittany says, before shifting uncomfortably. “It’s like four in the morning. Aren’t you leaving tomorrow?”

“I couldn’t. Not like this,” Santana admits, and man, it’s junior year all over again; things she doesn’t want to feel completely drown her. She wishes there was a locker or something for her to lean against, but all that she has now is Brittany herself. “I love you, Britt.”

Brittany doesn’t respond in any way whatsoever, and when Santana looks up, there is _so_ much fucking doubt on her face that she hates herself even more.

“I love you so much that I _can’t_ just be your friend. You think I’ve been punishing you, and maybe all of this is me being selfish, but it _kills_ me to be near you and to not--” The words squeeze out of her chest like she’s actually throwing them up, and then she just leans forward and clings to Brittany, so hard that they almost topple over.

“I don’t know what to do about that,” Brittany says, in a terribly sad and warm and _belonging_ voice, just by her ear. “I don’t know what to do about any of this.”

“We can’t do anything,” Santana says, knowing that she’s crying onto her own fucking jacket and that Brittany _knows_ and she still can’t get herself to stop. “It’s too late, now, and I’m not ready.”

“Santana--”

“Just--if you _ever_ leave him. If it doesn’t work out, or he’s an asshole, or you--you change your mind,” she forces out, past the hurt and the resentment and everything else that comes with being _second best_ , before drawing back and looking at Brittany. “Please just come and find me. Okay? _Please_.”

Brittany’s hands flex twice around her back, and then she nods, also crying--or maybe not; maybe it’s just that the sprinklers came on around them again, and after a moment Santana almost smiles.

“Your dad’s watering schedule is so fucking crazy,” she exhales, shakily.

Brittany smiles back at her, through her tears. “You know why, though, right?”

Santana shakes her head, questioning.

“It was the only thing that stopped you from sneaking into my bedroom,” Brittany says, after a moment.

The laugh that comes from her throat is a little broken, but it’s _there_ , and she can’t help but pull Britt in for another hug. This one’s tighter, but so much easier, and maybe she’s not going to feel any better about any of this tomorrow again--but for now, she feels _okay_.

“Bye,” she whispers, after another selfish minute of just hanging on.

“Bye,” Brittany whispers back, and then very gently lets her go.

(She doesn’t even realize she’s forgotten her jacket until two weeks later, when she’s looking for it in her new closet and it’s gone.)

*

They’re exhausted.

The entire day has been lugging boxes up and down stairs and trying to find space for everything they own, which is proving to be a challenge even with Rachel’s relentless determination and Santana’s careful measuring.

She’s also getting an _awful_ fucking cold, which is probably not that big a surprise given that she spent ten minutes hugging someone under a sprinkler yesterday in just her sleep shorts and a t-shirt, but whatever.

She hasn’t said a whole lot to Rachel, who seems to be processing her own set of goodbyes (her parents, Sam, Kurt... _everyone_ ) and for once doesn’t have a million and one fucking awful ideas that she just can’t contain.

Instead, she silently brings Santana some tea and makes them both a vegan egg salad sandwich, because bread and Hiram’s egg salad are basically the only things they have in the house right now.

Santana huddles around the only blanket that she’s managed to find so far and sighs when Rachel sinks down--looking an absolute fucking nightmare, her hair’s everywhere and she’s covered in dust and bruises--next to her awkwardly. Their sofa is small, and it _is_ awkward--it’s not like they have a whole lot of places to retreat to anymore.

She’s never felt smaller, than in this tiny-ass apartment in a city she knows nothing about and that isn’t really _her_ dream.

“Is this a really fucking stupid idea? Us living together?” Santana asks, when Rachel picks aimlessly at her side of the sofa.

“I think we probably want to re-assess that some other day,” Rachel says, before sinking down even further and running her hands over her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted, and that’s considering that Sam forced me to sit through all six _Star Wars_ movies without breaks earlier this summer.”

Santana sneezes unexpectedly and then laughs a little wryly. “I told Britt I loved her and would take her back if Artie had some sort of tragic disabled person accident, yesterday. And then her fucking sprinklers came on and now I feel like shit in the world’s smallest fucking apartment... and you want to talk about Star Wars.”

Rachel snorts after a moment, and then reaches across the couch, for Santana’s hand. “What did she say?”

“Not much,” Santana says, wiping at her nose with some toilet roll. “But... it wasn’t really about her.”

“Sam cried,” Rachel says, after a moment.

Santana laughs unwillingly. “What, and you didn’t?”

“No, of _course_ I did. I just thought you’d appreciate the visual. Drink your tea.”

She does, carefully, and tries to ignore the ache that Quinn isn’t here with her. Quinn would find something dumb to watch on television, and would insist they go out and try to get drunk somehow (probably with very poor results, actually, because she’s barely even been outside but the city is already fucking terrifying now that she knows she’s not just here for a few days), but that line of thinking needs to stop.

She has an egg salad sandwich and Rachel, and things could be _so_ much fucking worse.

“You know what always cheers me up?” Rachel says, after a moment.

“Talking?”

Rachel rolls her eyes and Santana can’t help a blatantly childish grin in response. “ _No_ , but try to work some variety into your insults, please. Now that we’re living together, the height and mouth jokes are going to get incredibly tired incredibly quickly.”

Her only response to that is a sneeze. Goddamned cold.

Rachel leans forward to do something on her laptop for a few seconds, and then looks at Santana very seriously.

“I am about to share a very special experience with you.”

“I doubt that,” Santana says, earning her a glare.

“You know musical theatre is like my lifeblood, and though I can already imagine the abhorrent number of insults you would direct at _Funny Girl_ if I showed it to you, which is why I won’t, _ever_ ,” Rachel says, firmly, “... but I am giving you a chance on something that I think you _might_ be able to appreciate.”

“You’re so fucking crazy,” Santana just says, because there is _nothing_ else to say.

Rachel sighs a little and says, “Well, I guess I might as well get used to you being uncooperative and irritating.”

“I’m sorry, did you just call _me_ irritating?”.

“Just shut up, Santana,” Rachel says, which-- _what the fuck?_

Did she wake up in fucking reverse-world or something? (Yes, that’s a real thing. After they all went to see the second Spider-man reboot, Sam wouldn’t stop fucking talking about alternative universes.)

Rachel queues something in Windows Media Player and then curls back up into her own corner of the sofa.

As soon as the words “Trapped In the Closet” appear on screen, Santana starts laughing so hard that it culminates in a horrible coughing fit, to which Rachel is wholly unsympathetic, that bitch. She does, however, pause the player and stares at Santana until she stops.

“I’m sorry, you were describing like a near fucking _holy_ experience to me just now and now we’re watching a musical made by some second-rate rapper who’s mostly just famous for _peeing_ on girls,” Santana finally manages, before taking another sip of tea.

“First of all, the term is _hip-hopera,_ ” Rachel says, primly. It sets Santana off again, but not so badly that she doesn’t hear Rachel add, “And I would like you to know that I pride myself on my varied musical interests and abilities. There is no saying that this particular genre won’t be the next big thing on off-off-Broadway and I will _never_ be accused of being under-prepared. That, and R. Kelly’s personal issues have no bearing on the quality of his music.”

*

Their first night in New York ends with Rachel singing along to an R. Kelly hip-hopera.

It’s impossible to be sad about everything that she’s left behind in Ohio when Rachel actually mimes shooting a Beretta at someone in the middle of the fifth chapter. She’s laughing so much her throat is raw.

“Pull yourself together, please. This is a pivotal moment in the dramatic arc,” Rachel hisses at her, sounding _so_ annoyed it’s unreal. “We’re about to find out that everyone has HIV. AIDS is _not_ a laughing matter.”

It’s really not, but sitting next to Rachel Berry in her strawberry-printed grey jammies, almost _crying_ at “Trapped in the Closet”?

 _Come on_.

*

Just before she falls asleep, Quinn sends a text, just asking if they’re settling in okay and if she’s stuffed a sock down Rachel’s throat yet.

 _We’re both fine. Miss you, bitch_ , she texts back.

*

So.

Maybe New York will be okay.


End file.
